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Picador All That Is.
A literary event--a major new novel, his first work of fiction in seven years, from the universally acclaimed master and PEN/Faulkner a sweeping, seductive love story set in post-World War II America that tells of one man's great passions and regrets over the course of his lifetime.
From his experiences as a naval officer in battles off Okinawa during World War II, Philip Bowman returns to America and finds a position as a book editor. It was a time when publishing was still a private affair--a scattered family of small houses here and in Europe--a time of gatherings in fabled apartments, parties into the night. It is a world in which to immerse himself, a world of intimate connections and surprising triumphs. But the deal that Philip cannot seem to close is one marriage goes bad; another fails to happen; and, finally, he meets a woman who enthralls, then betrays him, setting him on a course he could never have imagined for himself. Written with Salter's signature economy of prose, All That Is fiercely, fluidly explores a life unfolding in a world on the brink of a dazzling, sometimes devastating labyrinth of love and ambition, of the small shocks and grand pleasures of being alive.
From the Hardcover edition.
From his experiences as a naval officer in battles off Okinawa during World War II, Philip Bowman returns to America and finds a position as a book editor. It was a time when publishing was still a private affair--a scattered family of small houses here and in Europe--a time of gatherings in fabled apartments, parties into the night. It is a world in which to immerse himself, a world of intimate connections and surprising triumphs. But the deal that Philip cannot seem to close is one marriage goes bad; another fails to happen; and, finally, he meets a woman who enthralls, then betrays him, setting him on a course he could never have imagined for himself. Written with Salter's signature economy of prose, All That Is fiercely, fluidly explores a life unfolding in a world on the brink of a dazzling, sometimes devastating labyrinth of love and ambition, of the small shocks and grand pleasures of being alive.
From the Hardcover edition.
Paperback
First published January 1, 2013
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About the author
James Salter
75 books728 followersJames Salter (1925 - 2015) was a novelist, short story writer, and screenwriter. Salter grew up in New York City and was a career officer and Air Force pilot until his mid-thirties, when the success of his first novel (The Hunters, 1957) led to a fulltime writing career. Salter’s potent, lyrical prose earned him acclaim from critics, readers, and fellow novelists. His novel A Sport and a Pastime (1967) was hailed by the New York Times as “nearly perfect as any American fiction.”
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November 18, 2025
ANNI LUCE
Robert Redford e Gene Hackman in “Downhill Racer – Gli spericolati” diretto da Michael Ritchie nel 1969, sceneggiato da Salter. A seguire altri momenti della carriera di Salter a Hollywood.
Due anni prima di morire novantenne, James Salter ha pubblicato questo libro.
Il suo ultimo, dopo trenta e passa anni dal precedente romanzo (in mezzo, racconti, saggi, poesie, sceneggiature, memoir).
E, se fino ad allora la sua narrativa si era dedicata a singoli storie, singoli aspetti, momenti rivelatori dell’esistenza (il prossimo che voglio leggere, Light Years - Una perfetta felicità, è sulla fine di un matrimonio), qui per la prima volta sente la necessità di abbracciare un arco temporale vasto quanto la vita di un uomo, che quando inizia la storia nel 1943 è ufficiale di Marina nel Pacifico a combattere contro i giapponesi, e presentare in miniature scintillanti una quantità di personaggi e situazioni come mai prima.
E dunque, è il libro di una vita? Proprio tutto quello che è la vita?
Anche un film da regista nella carriera di Salter, questo “Three - Noi tre soltanto” del 1969, con Charlotte Rampling, Sam Waterston e Robie Porter. Un’esperienza che non si è più ripetuta.
Così viene da pensare.
Non solo per l’abbondanza e ricchezza di storie situazioni e caratteri, ma anche perché lo sguardo complessivo sembra proprio quello di chi ha molto vissuto, molto attraversato: racconta tutto quello che esiste, dalla guerra agli amori, dalla letteratura al cibo, dai paesaggi alle case, dalle conversazioni al sesso.
All That Is, il titolo originale, è la ricerca dello sperdimento, della rivelazione, dell’essenza della vita nell’eros.
Bowman, il protagonista che il narratore chiama sempre per cognome, ha un buon rapporto con la madre, reso più forte dall’abbandono prematuro del padre (diretto verso altri matrimoni e altre paternità), è soldato in marina, poi a lungo editor per una piccola casa editrice di Manhattan che nel corso dei decenni diventa una delle più significative d’America, si sposa, ma è un matrimonio che dura poco, Vivian è giovane bella ricca, e viene dal sud, al contrario di Bowman non ama leggere, probabilmente è più concreta, e lo lascia presto con una lettera.
Robert Mitchum in ”The Hunters – I cacciatori” diretto da Dick Powell nel 1958.
Un errore? Forse. Ma forse no. Vivere è anche sbagliare (e il passato è rischioso).
Bowman s’innamora di un’inglese bella e affascinante, ma la distanza spegne il sentimento: oppure semplicemente traccia un solco, separa, esaurisce.
Ci sono altre storie nella vita di Bowman, altri incontri, anche uno che dura pochi giorni con una ragazza almeno trent’anni più giovane di lui, una storia forse iniziata e terminata, letteralmente bruciata, più per vendetta che desiderio (ma forse no).
Arriva quella che potrebbe essere il secondo matrimonio, quello conclusivo, quello che funziona (intorno tutti sembrano collezionare almeno due o tre divorzi, ma alcuni al terzo matrimonio paiono alfine appagati): però le cose non vanno come lui vorrebbe, Bowman viene ferito, e tradito, e umiliato. Ma rimane in piedi, va avanti.
Poi, forse, dopo altre storie, alla fine, ormai sessantenne, forse, l’incontro che crea la sua coppia. Forse.
E tutto appare immerso in una luce calda da fine pomeriggio estivo. Quella che anticipa il tramonto.
Anouk Aimée e Omar Sharif in “The Appointment – La virtù sdraiata” diretto da Sidney Lumet nel 1969.
Non so quanto ci sia di autobiografico, a parte la data di nascita (1925) che è la stessa sia per Salter che per Philip Bowman, il protagonista, e, forse, il suo alter ego.
Protagonista unico di un romanzo corale, che a pennellate ritrae e schizza una folla di personaggi, tutti raccontati con chiarezza di lingua fluente semplice e precisa, sempre curata, mai approssimata.
E sono tutti bianchi, wasp o dixie che siano, accumunati dalla scarsa considerazione, o più semplicemente disinteresse, per l’uomo di colore nero che non sembra abitare gli Stati Uniti se non per assolvere alle funzioni più servili.
Donald Sutherland e Jeff Goldblum in “Threshold – A cuore aperto” diretto da Richard Pearce nel 1981.
Bowman ogni tanto fa un passo indietro, pare quasi entrare nell’ombra, mentre il narratore ci introduce a una galleria di ritratti, senza mai perdere il filo, senza abbandonare la barra: torniamo con facilità a Bowman per trovarlo un po’ cresciuto. Almeno negli anni, con più tempo alle spalle. Ma direi anche nella consapevolezza.
I fatti della sua vita che il narratore Salter ci racconta non sembrano mai davvero conclusi, chiusi nel passato, sono storie che non hanno ancora finito di dire e rivelare. Il passato è rischioso.
Si salutarono stringendosi la mano e quando furono vicini alla porta Kimmel gli lanciò ancora un blando arrivederci. Un attimo dopo erano spariti. Il passato era ritornato così all’improvviso. Era come se ora fosse lì ai suoi piedi, quel passato dimenticato. Bowman si sentiva stranamente più leggero.
Aleksandra Vujčić e Rade Šerbedžija in “Broken English” diretto da Gregor Nicholas nel 1996.
Robert Redford e Gene Hackman in “Downhill Racer – Gli spericolati” diretto da Michael Ritchie nel 1969, sceneggiato da Salter. A seguire altri momenti della carriera di Salter a Hollywood.
Due anni prima di morire novantenne, James Salter ha pubblicato questo libro.
Il suo ultimo, dopo trenta e passa anni dal precedente romanzo (in mezzo, racconti, saggi, poesie, sceneggiature, memoir).
E, se fino ad allora la sua narrativa si era dedicata a singoli storie, singoli aspetti, momenti rivelatori dell’esistenza (il prossimo che voglio leggere, Light Years - Una perfetta felicità, è sulla fine di un matrimonio), qui per la prima volta sente la necessità di abbracciare un arco temporale vasto quanto la vita di un uomo, che quando inizia la storia nel 1943 è ufficiale di Marina nel Pacifico a combattere contro i giapponesi, e presentare in miniature scintillanti una quantità di personaggi e situazioni come mai prima.
E dunque, è il libro di una vita? Proprio tutto quello che è la vita?
Anche un film da regista nella carriera di Salter, questo “Three - Noi tre soltanto” del 1969, con Charlotte Rampling, Sam Waterston e Robie Porter. Un’esperienza che non si è più ripetuta.
Così viene da pensare.
Non solo per l’abbondanza e ricchezza di storie situazioni e caratteri, ma anche perché lo sguardo complessivo sembra proprio quello di chi ha molto vissuto, molto attraversato: racconta tutto quello che esiste, dalla guerra agli amori, dalla letteratura al cibo, dai paesaggi alle case, dalle conversazioni al sesso.
All That Is, il titolo originale, è la ricerca dello sperdimento, della rivelazione, dell’essenza della vita nell’eros.
Bowman, il protagonista che il narratore chiama sempre per cognome, ha un buon rapporto con la madre, reso più forte dall’abbandono prematuro del padre (diretto verso altri matrimoni e altre paternità), è soldato in marina, poi a lungo editor per una piccola casa editrice di Manhattan che nel corso dei decenni diventa una delle più significative d’America, si sposa, ma è un matrimonio che dura poco, Vivian è giovane bella ricca, e viene dal sud, al contrario di Bowman non ama leggere, probabilmente è più concreta, e lo lascia presto con una lettera.
Robert Mitchum in ”The Hunters – I cacciatori” diretto da Dick Powell nel 1958.
Un errore? Forse. Ma forse no. Vivere è anche sbagliare (e il passato è rischioso).
Bowman s’innamora di un’inglese bella e affascinante, ma la distanza spegne il sentimento: oppure semplicemente traccia un solco, separa, esaurisce.
Ci sono altre storie nella vita di Bowman, altri incontri, anche uno che dura pochi giorni con una ragazza almeno trent’anni più giovane di lui, una storia forse iniziata e terminata, letteralmente bruciata, più per vendetta che desiderio (ma forse no).
Arriva quella che potrebbe essere il secondo matrimonio, quello conclusivo, quello che funziona (intorno tutti sembrano collezionare almeno due o tre divorzi, ma alcuni al terzo matrimonio paiono alfine appagati): però le cose non vanno come lui vorrebbe, Bowman viene ferito, e tradito, e umiliato. Ma rimane in piedi, va avanti.
Poi, forse, dopo altre storie, alla fine, ormai sessantenne, forse, l’incontro che crea la sua coppia. Forse.
E tutto appare immerso in una luce calda da fine pomeriggio estivo. Quella che anticipa il tramonto.
Anouk Aimée e Omar Sharif in “The Appointment – La virtù sdraiata” diretto da Sidney Lumet nel 1969.
Non so quanto ci sia di autobiografico, a parte la data di nascita (1925) che è la stessa sia per Salter che per Philip Bowman, il protagonista, e, forse, il suo alter ego.
Protagonista unico di un romanzo corale, che a pennellate ritrae e schizza una folla di personaggi, tutti raccontati con chiarezza di lingua fluente semplice e precisa, sempre curata, mai approssimata.
E sono tutti bianchi, wasp o dixie che siano, accumunati dalla scarsa considerazione, o più semplicemente disinteresse, per l’uomo di colore nero che non sembra abitare gli Stati Uniti se non per assolvere alle funzioni più servili.
Donald Sutherland e Jeff Goldblum in “Threshold – A cuore aperto” diretto da Richard Pearce nel 1981.
Bowman ogni tanto fa un passo indietro, pare quasi entrare nell’ombra, mentre il narratore ci introduce a una galleria di ritratti, senza mai perdere il filo, senza abbandonare la barra: torniamo con facilità a Bowman per trovarlo un po’ cresciuto. Almeno negli anni, con più tempo alle spalle. Ma direi anche nella consapevolezza.
I fatti della sua vita che il narratore Salter ci racconta non sembrano mai davvero conclusi, chiusi nel passato, sono storie che non hanno ancora finito di dire e rivelare. Il passato è rischioso.
Si salutarono stringendosi la mano e quando furono vicini alla porta Kimmel gli lanciò ancora un blando arrivederci. Un attimo dopo erano spariti. Il passato era ritornato così all’improvviso. Era come se ora fosse lì ai suoi piedi, quel passato dimenticato. Bowman si sentiva stranamente più leggero.
Aleksandra Vujčić e Rade Šerbedžija in “Broken English” diretto da Gregor Nicholas nel 1996.
June 21, 2013
I found this book deeply annoying, mostly for its embedded misogyny but also for its dull protagonist and narrative torpor. The perspective drifts frequently; we enter the thoughts of more than a dozen minor characters but never any of the protagonist’s women, except for a few paragraphs late in the book when one of them is moved to cheat on him. Each girlfriend's point of view is absent, presumably because, as the protagonist’s mother says of his first wife, she has no soul.
The prose is good but not unerring. Sometimes in his urge to compress the author cobbles phrases into sentences that are confusing or unintentionally comic. Time and again pronoun references are unclear and have to be puzzled out through rereading. The digressive plot is rich with lifelike detail but has no compelling thread; we meander through brief anecdotes that are only mildly interesting, and the chapters jerk forward sometimes years at a time, revisiting characters whom we've long forgotten, or introducing completely new ones - the book includes roughly a hundred different named individuals. Add to this the pervasive class snobbery (it came from out of the blue but I felt a perverse gratification when the protagonist’s ultimate heartthrob ran off with a blue-collar type) and you have a book that I would not have finished if not for its many strong reviews.
The prose is good but not unerring. Sometimes in his urge to compress the author cobbles phrases into sentences that are confusing or unintentionally comic. Time and again pronoun references are unclear and have to be puzzled out through rereading. The digressive plot is rich with lifelike detail but has no compelling thread; we meander through brief anecdotes that are only mildly interesting, and the chapters jerk forward sometimes years at a time, revisiting characters whom we've long forgotten, or introducing completely new ones - the book includes roughly a hundred different named individuals. Add to this the pervasive class snobbery (it came from out of the blue but I felt a perverse gratification when the protagonist’s ultimate heartthrob ran off with a blue-collar type) and you have a book that I would not have finished if not for its many strong reviews.
October 7, 2013
The people who review 'All That Is' as though they expect to find "all things fair and proper," are missing the point about Salter. Think of hims as a painter - Like Degas or Vermeer - and you'll find the path.
I was lucky enough to hear him interviewed on Thursday night at the Irish Art Center, and suddenly - it was clear. He means to paint portraits of the lives around him. Not his point of view. Not what he wishes might be there. Not what the world needs for fairness. Just what he sees. And if he uses language instead of color, it's just as much a portrait.
We don't ask ourselves questions about the fairness of the servant class and their employers in old Amrsterdam, when we look at Vermeer. We don't ask whether or not Degas understands or cares about the inner life of dancers - their hopes or aspirations. Or whether the horses at his race meetings have been ridden too hard. We just love the beautiful, beautiful pictures. The skill, the artistry, the color, the line, the light - we're delighted to find these things available to us. And we should be. Captured and held for us to view and consider and appreciate.
So, that's Salter's gift. These marvelous bits of life. Caught and perfectly rendered - and held in time - for us - and all who follow. I began with "All That Is" and I am making my way through all of his novels and loving it. If you're reading this review - in hopes of finding a reason to read Salter - or not - I urge you to pick him up. You'll not find it easy to stop reading. And I think you'll appreciate the gorgeous prose, the real skill and the find line of rare and wonderful talent.
I was lucky enough to hear him interviewed on Thursday night at the Irish Art Center, and suddenly - it was clear. He means to paint portraits of the lives around him. Not his point of view. Not what he wishes might be there. Not what the world needs for fairness. Just what he sees. And if he uses language instead of color, it's just as much a portrait.
We don't ask ourselves questions about the fairness of the servant class and their employers in old Amrsterdam, when we look at Vermeer. We don't ask whether or not Degas understands or cares about the inner life of dancers - their hopes or aspirations. Or whether the horses at his race meetings have been ridden too hard. We just love the beautiful, beautiful pictures. The skill, the artistry, the color, the line, the light - we're delighted to find these things available to us. And we should be. Captured and held for us to view and consider and appreciate.
So, that's Salter's gift. These marvelous bits of life. Caught and perfectly rendered - and held in time - for us - and all who follow. I began with "All That Is" and I am making my way through all of his novels and loving it. If you're reading this review - in hopes of finding a reason to read Salter - or not - I urge you to pick him up. You'll not find it easy to stop reading. And I think you'll appreciate the gorgeous prose, the real skill and the find line of rare and wonderful talent.
November 22, 2021
Será por el momento del partido en el que me encuentro por lo que cada vez me afectan más estos libros de miradas melancólicas a un pasado feliz o no tan feliz, de repasos a hechos y gentes que se cruzaron por el camino y que nos rozaron o nos tocaron o nos estrecharon, a veces hasta hacernos daño; mira que me han gustado algunos de los pasajes de este libro, tanto referidos a personajes principales como secundarios, pero la impresión final es de irregularidad, de altos y bajos muy pronunciados y, sí, también hay algo, y esto es lo peor, de una sensación para la que no se me ocurre otro nombre que el de simpleza.
Con la excepción de ciertos momentos puntuales, he percibido siempre mucha distancia con el protagonista. El relato me ha transmitido en todo momento una excesiva frialdad, tanto en el retrato del personaje como en la descripción de su forma de encarar los acontecimientos, los momentos de pasión o de sufrimiento, la venganza, la indiferencia y hasta el desdén y ello a pesar de la aparente intensidad de ciertas escenas. Tampoco ha ayudado nada la americanada narración de la visita a Andalucía que hace con una de sus amantes, y puede que también mis expectativas y la idea del estilo que tenía en base a mis anteriores lecturas del autor hayan ponderado muy negativamente en mi apreciación de esta historia.
Pero es que en la vida de este editor de éxito profesional y fracaso sentimental que el narrador nos concentra en unos cuantos episodios con unas cuantas mujeres no hay recovecos, no hay nada más allá, es, efectivamente, todo lo que hay. Pues qué quieren que les diga, que no me ha parecido mucho, la verdad, quizás para dos estrellas y media pero no más.
Con la excepción de ciertos momentos puntuales, he percibido siempre mucha distancia con el protagonista. El relato me ha transmitido en todo momento una excesiva frialdad, tanto en el retrato del personaje como en la descripción de su forma de encarar los acontecimientos, los momentos de pasión o de sufrimiento, la venganza, la indiferencia y hasta el desdén y ello a pesar de la aparente intensidad de ciertas escenas. Tampoco ha ayudado nada la americanada narración de la visita a Andalucía que hace con una de sus amantes, y puede que también mis expectativas y la idea del estilo que tenía en base a mis anteriores lecturas del autor hayan ponderado muy negativamente en mi apreciación de esta historia.
Pero es que en la vida de este editor de éxito profesional y fracaso sentimental que el narrador nos concentra en unos cuantos episodios con unas cuantas mujeres no hay recovecos, no hay nada más allá, es, efectivamente, todo lo que hay. Pues qué quieren que les diga, que no me ha parecido mucho, la verdad, quizás para dos estrellas y media pero no más.
April 27, 2019
the slow profound rhythm began, hardly varying but as time passed somehow more and more intense ... she was trembling like a tree about to fall ...
"I married the wrong man", she said.
... and if you marry this book, I believe it's more likely to last, the older you are.
James Salter
James Salter has been called a “writer’s writer”, the “finest craftsman of the American sentence”. And yet before reading of him in The New Yorker earlier this year (an article probably occasioned by the publication of this book) I’d never heard of him. Salter (last name originally Horowitz) was born in 1926; entered West Point in 1942 “at the urging of his alumnus father”; graduated in 1945 and entered the Army Air Corps. He does not seem to have seen much in the way of combat in the War. In 1947, still in the service (the AAC had become the U.S. Air Force) he entered Georgetown University for post-graduate studies, receiving a Master of Arts degree in 1950. He volunteered to serve in Korea, and arrived there early in 1952. Between February and August of that year he flew over 100 combat missions.
Horowitz had begun writing in his spare time in the Air Force. His first novel, based on his experiences in Korea, was The Hunters, published in 1956 and made into a movie (starring Robert Mitchum and Robert Wagner) in 1958. Horowitz left the Air Force in 1957 to pursue writing, having served for 12 years, the last six as a fighter pilot. He cut ties with the Air Force completely in 1961 when he left the Air Force Reserve. The next year he legally changed his name to Salter. ( see Wiki )
All That Is
When S received this book he uncharacteristically opened it up somewhere and began to read. Soon he thought start at the beginning; and read the book in short order (for him) neglecting all his other partly read books.
The story, and Salter’s clean, spare writing, drew him in – into the story of Phillip Bowman.
S soon found himself thinking of John Williams' Stoner. … starts with a short chapter on the boy growing up, finding himself in college discovering literature. He knew the story at hand was not quite like that, though it did seem a tale of another man, like Stoner, finding himself attracted to a career not foreseen by him at a younger age.
But S was puzzled by the title. What did it mean? After comparing it with the similar All There Is, after rearranging the words into That Is All, he concluded that the title foretold a story of a man’s life and all the things - events, happenings - that had helped to form that life. The set of events that the man would retain memory of down the years, that upon reflection he would see as the events that made him what he had become, and made his life play out as it did.
What sort of events? Those things that have led up to and define and clarify the present, simply the setting of time and place and circumstance: experiences during the war in the Pacific; going to college afterward; friends and family; job interviews; finding the spot he liked as an editor; history of his mother and other characters; books, writers, dinners, parties, conversations. Co-workers, friends made; nothing remarkable about the things told, though the telling done in an economical and somehow elegant but certainly not ornate style.
The main narrative moving forward through successive events and periods of Bowman’s life, with details of personal background and history, Bowman’s of course (born in 1925, growing up in Summit New Jersey, his father leaving his mother and he the two year old) but other characters as well (his mother, his wife, his father-in-law, his best friend from work), done in brief flashbacks that can bubble up unexpectedly.
And the way in which the stories, almost short stories of these other characters in Bowman’s life, flow in and out and along with Bowman’s story, providing supporting evidence, as it were, that their experiences, some similar to Bowman’s, others very different, all adding to the catalog of all that Is.
S could not decide whether any of this made the story different from many other such fictions, though there was one aspect of the set of events which seemed unusual, that being the prominence of SEXUAL experience - mostly for Bowman but for his sexual partners too and sometimes even for other characters.
Incidents of SEX. Salter takes care to explain why the SEX events he chronicles each had a deep significance for Bowman (and for the others at times).
Example: Bowman’s first experience of intercourse with his (not foreseen at the time) wife-to-be Vivian. The friend she’s staying with is gone for the weekend:
"I married the wrong man", she said.
S was at first surprised by the SEX aspect, that Salter focused so much on SEXUAL experience as such an important part of a life. But then out walking he thought yes isn’t it the case that of all that we remember in life, memories both GOOD and BAD – the BAD memories, of pain, loss, fear … the sorts of things that maybe we dream of, when we dream of our own past … and yes those bad things can involve SEX also, rape, violent coercion (but those memories not really memories of SEX, rather memories of FEAR AND PAIN) … the memories we retain of sex, of particular sexual experiences, are GOOD, are memories that (if one is lucky, if one isn’t haunted in waking by BAD memories) fuel our reveries, those daydreams of the past that come unbidden, and though unbidden somehow appear more often than memories we invite – these memories come without invitation, over and over throughout life, on a merry-go-round pushed again and again by nothing more than a sound, a few notes from a song, a word, even a remembrance of something else which somehow chains into the other … "all roads lead to" … and all those roads lead here because this place stands out from all the rest.
S wondered, would the partner remember the same things? And if so, for the same reasons? He had never asked, probably never would. "Do you remember the time … ?" What if “no”? Would he want to venture into that strange landscape, where something so significant, and magnificent, to him was utterly unnoticed by the journey’s partner?
Time to move on.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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"I married the wrong man", she said.
... and if you marry this book, I believe it's more likely to last, the older you are.
James Salter
James Salter has been called a “writer’s writer”, the “finest craftsman of the American sentence”. And yet before reading of him in The New Yorker earlier this year (an article probably occasioned by the publication of this book) I’d never heard of him. Salter (last name originally Horowitz) was born in 1926; entered West Point in 1942 “at the urging of his alumnus father”; graduated in 1945 and entered the Army Air Corps. He does not seem to have seen much in the way of combat in the War. In 1947, still in the service (the AAC had become the U.S. Air Force) he entered Georgetown University for post-graduate studies, receiving a Master of Arts degree in 1950. He volunteered to serve in Korea, and arrived there early in 1952. Between February and August of that year he flew over 100 combat missions.
Horowitz had begun writing in his spare time in the Air Force. His first novel, based on his experiences in Korea, was The Hunters, published in 1956 and made into a movie (starring Robert Mitchum and Robert Wagner) in 1958. Horowitz left the Air Force in 1957 to pursue writing, having served for 12 years, the last six as a fighter pilot. He cut ties with the Air Force completely in 1961 when he left the Air Force Reserve. The next year he legally changed his name to Salter. ( see Wiki )
All That Is
When S received this book he uncharacteristically opened it up somewhere and began to read. Soon he thought start at the beginning; and read the book in short order (for him) neglecting all his other partly read books.
The story, and Salter’s clean, spare writing, drew him in – into the story of Phillip Bowman.
S soon found himself thinking of John Williams' Stoner. … starts with a short chapter on the boy growing up, finding himself in college discovering literature. He knew the story at hand was not quite like that, though it did seem a tale of another man, like Stoner, finding himself attracted to a career not foreseen by him at a younger age.
But S was puzzled by the title. What did it mean? After comparing it with the similar All There Is, after rearranging the words into That Is All, he concluded that the title foretold a story of a man’s life and all the things - events, happenings - that had helped to form that life. The set of events that the man would retain memory of down the years, that upon reflection he would see as the events that made him what he had become, and made his life play out as it did.
What sort of events? Those things that have led up to and define and clarify the present, simply the setting of time and place and circumstance: experiences during the war in the Pacific; going to college afterward; friends and family; job interviews; finding the spot he liked as an editor; history of his mother and other characters; books, writers, dinners, parties, conversations. Co-workers, friends made; nothing remarkable about the things told, though the telling done in an economical and somehow elegant but certainly not ornate style.
The main narrative moving forward through successive events and periods of Bowman’s life, with details of personal background and history, Bowman’s of course (born in 1925, growing up in Summit New Jersey, his father leaving his mother and he the two year old) but other characters as well (his mother, his wife, his father-in-law, his best friend from work), done in brief flashbacks that can bubble up unexpectedly.
And the way in which the stories, almost short stories of these other characters in Bowman’s life, flow in and out and along with Bowman’s story, providing supporting evidence, as it were, that their experiences, some similar to Bowman’s, others very different, all adding to the catalog of all that Is.
S could not decide whether any of this made the story different from many other such fictions, though there was one aspect of the set of events which seemed unusual, that being the prominence of SEXUAL experience - mostly for Bowman but for his sexual partners too and sometimes even for other characters.
Incidents of SEX. Salter takes care to explain why the SEX events he chronicles each had a deep significance for Bowman (and for the others at times).
Example: Bowman’s first experience of intercourse with his (not foreseen at the time) wife-to-be Vivian. The friend she’s staying with is gone for the weekend:
They sat for a few moments in silence and then she simply leaned forward and kissed him. The kiss was light but ardent.Later, a somewhat older Bowman is in Spain with a woman, Enid, whom he is wildly in love with. They are both married, neither with a deep attachment to their partner. They have taken opportunities as offered when he visits London for business. They witness a stunning flamenco.
“Do you want to? she asked.
She did not take everything off – shoes, stockings, and skirt, that was all. She was not prepared for more. They kissed and whispered … He could not believe they were doing this.
“I don’t … have anything,” he whispered.
There was no answer.
He was inexperienced but it was natural and overwhelming. Also too quick, he couldn’t help it. He felt embarrassed. Her face was close to his.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t stop it.”
She said nothing, she had almost no way to judge it.
She went into the bathroom and Bowman lay back in awe at what had happened and feeling intoxicated by a world that had suddenly opened wide to the greatest pleasure, pleasure beyond knowing. He knew of the joy that might lie ahead.
…
She nestled against him and he tried to think along her lines. Whatever might happen, they had done it. He felt only exaltation.
They walked through walled alleyways, she in high-heels, bare-shouldered, and sat in the silent darkness as deep chords of a guitar slowly began and the air itself stilled. Chord after ominous chord, the guitarist immobile and grave until a woman in a chair beside him, till then unseen, raised her arms and with a sound like gunshots began to clap her hands … Slowly at first she began to chant or intone – she was not singing, she was reciting what had always been known, reciting and repeating, the guitar like drums hypnotic and endless, it was the Gypsy siguiriya …They make wild love in their room. "His old fettered life was behind him, it had been transformed as if by some revelation. They made love as if it were a violent crime, he was holding her by the waist, half woman, half vase, adding weight to the act. She was crying in agony, like a dog near death. They collapsed as if striken." And then again in the morning, when "the slow profound rhythm began, hardly varying but as time passed somehow more and more intense ... she was trembling like a tree about to fall ..."
Her hands were up near her face, clapping … her voice anguished, singing in blindness, her eyes closed, her bare arms, silver loops in her ears and long dark hair. The song was her song but it belonged to the Vega, the wide plain with its sun-dark workers and shimmering heat, she was pouring out life's despair, bitterness, crimes, her clapping fierce and relentless ... singing with ever greater intensity amid the relentless chords, the savage, tight beat of the heels ... the man's lean body bent like an S ...
They sat afterwards in a bar open to the narrow street, barely speaking.
“What did you think?” he said.
She replied only, "My God."
"I married the wrong man", she said.
S was at first surprised by the SEX aspect, that Salter focused so much on SEXUAL experience as such an important part of a life. But then out walking he thought yes isn’t it the case that of all that we remember in life, memories both GOOD and BAD – the BAD memories, of pain, loss, fear … the sorts of things that maybe we dream of, when we dream of our own past … and yes those bad things can involve SEX also, rape, violent coercion (but those memories not really memories of SEX, rather memories of FEAR AND PAIN) … the memories we retain of sex, of particular sexual experiences, are GOOD, are memories that (if one is lucky, if one isn’t haunted in waking by BAD memories) fuel our reveries, those daydreams of the past that come unbidden, and though unbidden somehow appear more often than memories we invite – these memories come without invitation, over and over throughout life, on a merry-go-round pushed again and again by nothing more than a sound, a few notes from a song, a word, even a remembrance of something else which somehow chains into the other … "all roads lead to" … and all those roads lead here because this place stands out from all the rest.
S wondered, would the partner remember the same things? And if so, for the same reasons? He had never asked, probably never would. "Do you remember the time … ?" What if “no”? Would he want to venture into that strange landscape, where something so significant, and magnificent, to him was utterly unnoticed by the journey’s partner?
Time to move on.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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October 22, 2018
I've read a lot of James Salter recently and this probably is my least favourite. The writing here on the whole is less inspired than in his other books. And there's not much plot. It's an attempt to narrate the life of one man throughout his adult life (his childhood is mysteriously omitted). Bowman, the hero, is a New York editor and the novel is a series of meetings with privileged individuals who will influence his life. There are lots of parties and lots of flirting. Often Salter delves momentarily into these other lives before returning once again to Bowman. As usual Salter is very interested in sex. He seems to have an exaggerated notion of the importance of sex in life. There's the suspicion he was a womaniser in real life as his characters are constantly using sex as a regenerative boost. I can't say it was terribly clear what Salter wanted to say in this book. Bowman seemed incapable of love. Infatuation is his favourite state and when it begins to fade his eye starts to wander again. There's a brutal twist but its outcome is oddly anaemic. 3.5 stars.
July 10, 2013
Having read this book in short order, I took some time afterward to let it wash over--certain I had missed something. Is the grand statement embedded in the title: All That Is? Is this dull cycle of lust, bordeom, and betrayal all that there is in life? If that's the message, then Salter is a bit late to the party. Nihilism has been explored ad nauseum, and we don't need another book with nothing new to say on the subject. But perhaps I missed something.
I felt that Bowman, our main character--flawed as he is--represents Salter's version of the "enlightened man" a bit too obviously for my taste. The entire narrative is a series of case studies of Bowman keeping his head above water by adhering to his own personal (read: generic) brand of nihilism. Then every person he meets along the way actually invests themselves wholly in their lives, only to be painted as noble fools who have the rug pulled out from underneath them. The message seems clear: live in the moment, and live for yourself, because this is all there is.
That's not how life is, though. If that's all you've seen of life, then it's not because you have experience--but rather a deficit of it. Flying around to various countries, reading books, and having sex with dozens of people doesn't even begin to count as "living." Living is something that happens when you connect with the living--something that involves others. Bowman never steps out of his head--not for a second. I guess it's too scary out there. I was disappointed that Salter let Bowman think he had really "given his best" to Vivian, his wife, and in so many other situations when he really had not. "But wait," you will say! "Bowman was emotionally connected with so many people! Surely that counts as living." Emotions mean nothing, at the end of the day. Actions mean everything, and Bowman is not a man of action. Being "in love" is not the same as loving someone, and laying down your own life every day for them. THAT is what love is, and Bowman never did it. It cost him nothing. Nothing cost Bowman anything. Even Christine's trick only cost him some money at first, but we're lead to believe that she took over the mortgage anyway.
If it didn't cost anyone anything, then it didn't mean anything.
If I've somehow missed the mark on this, then I'm sorry. If Salter's whole point was to say something about how sad Bowman's life was, I don't think he did it. If he says anything, it's that Bowman's way is the right way.
Nope. Sorry, James. It's not. Try again.
People have mentioned how beautiful the prose is. Salter's got a gift for putting words together. I'll give him that. However, so much of the structure of this book reads as someone's amateur idea of a unique tone. Really, it's just poor structure. Unless you're trying to help the reader get inside the mind of someone on drugs or with a mental condition, jumping willy-nilly between perspectives (10 different ones in the first chapter--I counted) is empty. It might be a "stylistic choice," but it means nothing, and is therefore empty.
If I could sum up this book, I would say it is a cheap-but-pretty, empty flower vase that was set under the sink twenty years ago, and has been polished up and presented as a gift. Hope they kept the receipt, but probably not.
I felt that Bowman, our main character--flawed as he is--represents Salter's version of the "enlightened man" a bit too obviously for my taste. The entire narrative is a series of case studies of Bowman keeping his head above water by adhering to his own personal (read: generic) brand of nihilism. Then every person he meets along the way actually invests themselves wholly in their lives, only to be painted as noble fools who have the rug pulled out from underneath them. The message seems clear: live in the moment, and live for yourself, because this is all there is.
That's not how life is, though. If that's all you've seen of life, then it's not because you have experience--but rather a deficit of it. Flying around to various countries, reading books, and having sex with dozens of people doesn't even begin to count as "living." Living is something that happens when you connect with the living--something that involves others. Bowman never steps out of his head--not for a second. I guess it's too scary out there. I was disappointed that Salter let Bowman think he had really "given his best" to Vivian, his wife, and in so many other situations when he really had not. "But wait," you will say! "Bowman was emotionally connected with so many people! Surely that counts as living." Emotions mean nothing, at the end of the day. Actions mean everything, and Bowman is not a man of action. Being "in love" is not the same as loving someone, and laying down your own life every day for them. THAT is what love is, and Bowman never did it. It cost him nothing. Nothing cost Bowman anything. Even Christine's trick only cost him some money at first, but we're lead to believe that she took over the mortgage anyway.
If it didn't cost anyone anything, then it didn't mean anything.
If I've somehow missed the mark on this, then I'm sorry. If Salter's whole point was to say something about how sad Bowman's life was, I don't think he did it. If he says anything, it's that Bowman's way is the right way.
Nope. Sorry, James. It's not. Try again.
People have mentioned how beautiful the prose is. Salter's got a gift for putting words together. I'll give him that. However, so much of the structure of this book reads as someone's amateur idea of a unique tone. Really, it's just poor structure. Unless you're trying to help the reader get inside the mind of someone on drugs or with a mental condition, jumping willy-nilly between perspectives (10 different ones in the first chapter--I counted) is empty. It might be a "stylistic choice," but it means nothing, and is therefore empty.
If I could sum up this book, I would say it is a cheap-but-pretty, empty flower vase that was set under the sink twenty years ago, and has been polished up and presented as a gift. Hope they kept the receipt, but probably not.
March 7, 2016
All That Is was my introduction to James Salter. I suppose the ultimate worth test of any novel, upon finishing it, is do I want to read another one of his books? The answer to this is, yes. Yes but not in a mad hurry of love.
His prose is almost like underwriting – sketched impressions that flit with a surprising dexterity over huge expanses of time and from one character’s perspective to another. Often he enters the point of view of sideshow characters for a moment, offers an anecdote or a vignette of social commentary, and then drops them. The surprise is, for the most part, he makes this eccentric head hopping work. But essentially this novel is about Philip Bowman, a young naval officer during WW2 when we first meet him who becomes an editor at a New York publishing house.
Philip Bowman is in love with infatuation. Emotionally he doesn’t appear to get beyond it as an ideal. He’s like a man permanently in the grip of male menopause. Women to him are objects of beauty, conveyors of moments of heightened physical intimacy. He gets through half a dozen in the novel and the overriding sense is that he can barely tell them apart. He’s a man remembering women as conquest and effect. It appears he can only dwell happily in idyllic realms. As a result of which all his attempts to build a home and forge a lasting relationship are thwarted. The novel is essentially about his sexual conquests, an attempt to highlight the regenerating nature of physical intimacy. Except it’s a bit hollow as a life affirming coda, as this is a routine of recharging batteries that might be achieved through frequent visits to call girls.
I can see why Salter has never received the plaudits of a Bellow, Delillo or Roth. On the evidence of this novel he doesn’t get his hands dirty as a writer. He doesn’t put his head under the water. We’re skimming over surfaces with Salter, beautifully depicted surfaces but there’s often the feeling of missing dimensions in his prose. For example we’re never quite sure if Salter perceives the egotistical superficiality of his central character’s demands of women. Which is why, I suppose, he’s been accused of misogyny in some quarters. In his late eighties James Salter has lived through decades in which sexual politics have been revolutionised so it’s perhaps no wonder that at times he can appear mired in a more macho and entitled male mind-set but one of the fascinating subtexts of this novel is to show us, on the one hand, how much things have changed in the male/female dynamic and, on the other hand, how little they’ve changed.
His prose is almost like underwriting – sketched impressions that flit with a surprising dexterity over huge expanses of time and from one character’s perspective to another. Often he enters the point of view of sideshow characters for a moment, offers an anecdote or a vignette of social commentary, and then drops them. The surprise is, for the most part, he makes this eccentric head hopping work. But essentially this novel is about Philip Bowman, a young naval officer during WW2 when we first meet him who becomes an editor at a New York publishing house.
Philip Bowman is in love with infatuation. Emotionally he doesn’t appear to get beyond it as an ideal. He’s like a man permanently in the grip of male menopause. Women to him are objects of beauty, conveyors of moments of heightened physical intimacy. He gets through half a dozen in the novel and the overriding sense is that he can barely tell them apart. He’s a man remembering women as conquest and effect. It appears he can only dwell happily in idyllic realms. As a result of which all his attempts to build a home and forge a lasting relationship are thwarted. The novel is essentially about his sexual conquests, an attempt to highlight the regenerating nature of physical intimacy. Except it’s a bit hollow as a life affirming coda, as this is a routine of recharging batteries that might be achieved through frequent visits to call girls.
I can see why Salter has never received the plaudits of a Bellow, Delillo or Roth. On the evidence of this novel he doesn’t get his hands dirty as a writer. He doesn’t put his head under the water. We’re skimming over surfaces with Salter, beautifully depicted surfaces but there’s often the feeling of missing dimensions in his prose. For example we’re never quite sure if Salter perceives the egotistical superficiality of his central character’s demands of women. Which is why, I suppose, he’s been accused of misogyny in some quarters. In his late eighties James Salter has lived through decades in which sexual politics have been revolutionised so it’s perhaps no wonder that at times he can appear mired in a more macho and entitled male mind-set but one of the fascinating subtexts of this novel is to show us, on the one hand, how much things have changed in the male/female dynamic and, on the other hand, how little they’ve changed.
March 13, 2024
I'm afraid I failed to finish this one. I got about a third of the way through and had enjoyed some of the writing and some sections had actually been really good, but the problem for me was twofold:
1) I just didn’t care enough about the lead character who seemed dull and was plodding through life after World War II. Nothing of any interest was happening to him and he, in turn, had nothing interesting to say.
2) I got lost in the myriad of characters, many of whom were dropped instantly after their introduction, seemingly never to reappear.
I should have seen it coming from the start. In the opening sequence, the reader is introduced to a small group of sailors preparing to participate in a significant battle towards the end of the war. The scene is set in anticipation of the battle sequence. This could be interesting! So what happens? The battle sequence goes nowhere save for a cursory explanation of what happened, and then only at a very strategic level. And of the three characters I can recall meeting (two of whom sounded interesting, particularly one who jumped off the ship in the mistaken belief it had been ‘hit’) who do we follow? The dullard! We follow the one who’s been already lined up as a non-character with nothing to say.
A pity, as there's some excellent writing here and there may be a good story in there somewhere. AIas I didn’t find it.
1) I just didn’t care enough about the lead character who seemed dull and was plodding through life after World War II. Nothing of any interest was happening to him and he, in turn, had nothing interesting to say.
2) I got lost in the myriad of characters, many of whom were dropped instantly after their introduction, seemingly never to reappear.
I should have seen it coming from the start. In the opening sequence, the reader is introduced to a small group of sailors preparing to participate in a significant battle towards the end of the war. The scene is set in anticipation of the battle sequence. This could be interesting! So what happens? The battle sequence goes nowhere save for a cursory explanation of what happened, and then only at a very strategic level. And of the three characters I can recall meeting (two of whom sounded interesting, particularly one who jumped off the ship in the mistaken belief it had been ‘hit’) who do we follow? The dullard! We follow the one who’s been already lined up as a non-character with nothing to say.
A pity, as there's some excellent writing here and there may be a good story in there somewhere. AIas I didn’t find it.
April 15, 2013
A look back to another time, from the 1945 end of World War Two into the 1970s before the twin movements of anti-establishment youth culture and first wave feminism changed everything. Salter clearly looks back fondly on this time but it is as a time that is gone forever and now seems like an alien culture.
In the hands of a lesser writer this tale of culture, class, power and wealth would be a miserable failure. Salter is often defined, in an almost obligatory fashion, as a "writer's writer." I take this to mean that no matter the story, no matter how outré it might be, a writer, a professional lover of language, will drink deeply of the novel's craft. This is, in part, because Salter is a spare writer and his sentences are crafted with exquisite care. One could adequately comment on the book with a series of quotations which if only peripherally related would still be entrancing.
The book is moored definitely in its time but the specifics of the time are rare. There a one sentence comment on the Kennedy assassination and Vietnam is summed up in another exquisite observation:
The story itself is a kind of anti-bildungsroman. The main protagonist, Philip Bowman, comes home from the Pacific War changed in some subtle way. He attempts to become a journalist but ends up as an editor in a small literary publishing house. He falls deeply in love with a young Virginia aristocrat but their marriage, to the relief of both, quietly falls apart. Bowman meets many more women with whom he also falls deeply in love with and has athletic sex with in a variety of locales. It becomes a vacuous, amoral, purposeless world of sensual eroticism. Unlike our hookup culture that promises no commitment, no promises and no tomorrows the world of this book is populated by men falling completely, head over heels deeply in love. Sex is a part of it but the sex is also surrounded by comfortable domesticity and the symbols of high culture: museums, plays, dinner parties, European vacations, and always, lots of very fine liquor. There is a broad cast of characters that Salter will often introduce with a complete back story and then have them participate in some small aspect of Bowman's life before shuffling offstage. The reader follows Bowman through these adventures, as he interacts with the world of high culture as it existed until the late 1960s. For anyone familiar with TV's "Mad Men," Bowman is in many aspects a more sophisticated version of Don Draper. The book has its shocking moments , an act of unparalleled venality and an act of surreal revenge are but the two most obvious. On the other hand, this lovingly detailed look at a vanished world seems like an act of homage from the 88 year old Salter. There is much to admire or perhaps envy of this time. As the book concludes Bowman has aged and his last comments seem very much of their author:
This passage of time and of the changes time inevitably brings fuel the elegiac tone here. For time, passing time is surely Salter's theme here, that and the difficulty of knowing ourselves in any serious manner. The last lines of the book emphasize this when Bowman, old but not alone, says: "There comes a time when you realize that everything is a dream, and only those things preserved in writing have any possibility of being real." One reviewer noted that Salter is as close to an Epicurean writer as we are likely to get and that it is this factor that makes his work difficult for those gentle readers still attached to the literary form.
In the hands of a lesser writer this tale of culture, class, power and wealth would be a miserable failure. Salter is often defined, in an almost obligatory fashion, as a "writer's writer." I take this to mean that no matter the story, no matter how outré it might be, a writer, a professional lover of language, will drink deeply of the novel's craft. This is, in part, because Salter is a spare writer and his sentences are crafted with exquisite care. One could adequately comment on the book with a series of quotations which if only peripherally related would still be entrancing.
The book is moored definitely in its time but the specifics of the time are rare. There a one sentence comment on the Kennedy assassination and Vietnam is summed up in another exquisite observation:
Everything, during this time, was overshadowed by the war in Vietnam. The passions of the many against the war, especially the youth, were inflamed. There were the endless lists of the dead, the visible brutality, the many promises of victory that were never kept until the war seemed like some dissolute son who cannot ever be trusted or change but must always be taken in.
The story itself is a kind of anti-bildungsroman. The main protagonist, Philip Bowman, comes home from the Pacific War changed in some subtle way. He attempts to become a journalist but ends up as an editor in a small literary publishing house. He falls deeply in love with a young Virginia aristocrat but their marriage, to the relief of both, quietly falls apart. Bowman meets many more women with whom he also falls deeply in love with and has athletic sex with in a variety of locales. It becomes a vacuous, amoral, purposeless world of sensual eroticism. Unlike our hookup culture that promises no commitment, no promises and no tomorrows the world of this book is populated by men falling completely, head over heels deeply in love. Sex is a part of it but the sex is also surrounded by comfortable domesticity and the symbols of high culture: museums, plays, dinner parties, European vacations, and always, lots of very fine liquor. There is a broad cast of characters that Salter will often introduce with a complete back story and then have them participate in some small aspect of Bowman's life before shuffling offstage. The reader follows Bowman through these adventures, as he interacts with the world of high culture as it existed until the late 1960s. For anyone familiar with TV's "Mad Men," Bowman is in many aspects a more sophisticated version of Don Draper. The book has its shocking moments , an act of unparalleled venality and an act of surreal revenge are but the two most obvious. On the other hand, this lovingly detailed look at a vanished world seems like an act of homage from the 88 year old Salter. There is much to admire or perhaps envy of this time. As the book concludes Bowman has aged and his last comments seem very much of their author:
The power of the novel in the nation's culture had weakened. It had happened gradually. It was something everyone recognized and ignored. All went on exactly as before, that was the beauty of it. The glory had faded but fresh faces kept appearing, wanting to be part of it, to be in publishing which had retained a suggestion of elegance like a pair of beautiful, bone-shined shoes owned by a bankrupt man. Those who had been in it for some years ... were like nails driven long ago into a tree that then grew around them.
This passage of time and of the changes time inevitably brings fuel the elegiac tone here. For time, passing time is surely Salter's theme here, that and the difficulty of knowing ourselves in any serious manner. The last lines of the book emphasize this when Bowman, old but not alone, says: "There comes a time when you realize that everything is a dream, and only those things preserved in writing have any possibility of being real." One reviewer noted that Salter is as close to an Epicurean writer as we are likely to get and that it is this factor that makes his work difficult for those gentle readers still attached to the literary form.
April 7, 2013
I forced myself to finish this book. True, for the last 30% or so, I flipped the digital pages quickly. I was determined to reach the end to see why, oh why, Amazon chose it as a Best Book of the Month and the blurbers raved. (Why do the blurbers rave?)
I admit that the language is often well-done. The sample that I downloaded, the first pages, were fine.
But it is a novel devoid of plot. It is a pointless pastiche of vignettes about the protagonist's empty sexual conquests and the vacuity of his life.
I had never read anything by James Salter before. Indeed, I had never heard of him. If, as some of the reviewers claim, this is his greatest work, I now know why.
A pointless book about a pointless life.
I admit that the language is often well-done. The sample that I downloaded, the first pages, were fine.
But it is a novel devoid of plot. It is a pointless pastiche of vignettes about the protagonist's empty sexual conquests and the vacuity of his life.
I had never read anything by James Salter before. Indeed, I had never heard of him. If, as some of the reviewers claim, this is his greatest work, I now know why.
A pointless book about a pointless life.
May 19, 2013
Oh how I wanted to love thee...
It's a little cruel to have to choose how many stars to give this book. My heart was oscillating between two or three. Both seemed cruel but I chose two.
I adore James Salter. "Light Years" was such a luminous, haunting book. "Burning The Days" was such an energetic, urgent memoir.
What happened to the energy, the urgency, the passionate, beating heart of life? Is this really "all that is"? I certainly hope not.
I was tremendously bored throughout the novel. I was devastated to be bored but I need to be honest and could not bring myself to care about this character for one second. Where was his interior life? What were his struggles? Where was the adversity?
I felt as if I was constantly floating in some ethereal world where absolutely nothing happens, where women were nothing but "goddesses", with high cheekbones and perfect limbs, nothing but empty vessels to be filled (literally) by the narrator's glorious manhood. A world where life was nothing but a succession of low-lit bars and drinks and elegant restaurants and glamorous apartments... A life unmoored, inconsequential, detached, painfully meaningless. A narrator who only seemed to come to life briefly though his sexual encounters, before dissolving again in melancholy and nostalgia.
Beautiful sentences (and there are quite a few here, lighting up the darkness) could not mask the absolute emptiness that lay at the heart of this book for me.
A beautiful disaster. My biggest literary disappointment of the year.
It's a little cruel to have to choose how many stars to give this book. My heart was oscillating between two or three. Both seemed cruel but I chose two.
I adore James Salter. "Light Years" was such a luminous, haunting book. "Burning The Days" was such an energetic, urgent memoir.
What happened to the energy, the urgency, the passionate, beating heart of life? Is this really "all that is"? I certainly hope not.
I was tremendously bored throughout the novel. I was devastated to be bored but I need to be honest and could not bring myself to care about this character for one second. Where was his interior life? What were his struggles? Where was the adversity?
I felt as if I was constantly floating in some ethereal world where absolutely nothing happens, where women were nothing but "goddesses", with high cheekbones and perfect limbs, nothing but empty vessels to be filled (literally) by the narrator's glorious manhood. A world where life was nothing but a succession of low-lit bars and drinks and elegant restaurants and glamorous apartments... A life unmoored, inconsequential, detached, painfully meaningless. A narrator who only seemed to come to life briefly though his sexual encounters, before dissolving again in melancholy and nostalgia.
Beautiful sentences (and there are quite a few here, lighting up the darkness) could not mask the absolute emptiness that lay at the heart of this book for me.
A beautiful disaster. My biggest literary disappointment of the year.
April 9, 2013
So... damn... good...
At Amazon, we picked this as a Best Book of the Month. In my Amazon review I wrote: "Beneath the deceptively straightforward coming-of-age and growing-old narrative--boy meets girl, loses girl; meets, loses; meets, loses--lurks the deeply personal story of what it meant to be a 20th century man. Phillip Bowman is the archetype of the flawed, ambitious, lust-filled American male. He’s Don Draper. He’s Rabbit Angstrom. He’s your dad. He’s my dad. (Also named Phil; also from New Jersey.) What’s truly astounding here is the writing, from a master who happens to be an octogenarian. Salter crafts beautiful sentences. He creates characters, lives, entire worlds in just a page or two. He’s also capable of some blushingly evocative sex scenes--again, impressive for a man approaching 90. Profound and lush, this is a book to savor. It’s the sweeping story of a complicated, error-filled, fully wrung-out life. A guy’s life. A good life."
(See more of my Amazon Best of the Month reviews.)
All That Is
At Amazon, we picked this as a Best Book of the Month. In my Amazon review I wrote: "Beneath the deceptively straightforward coming-of-age and growing-old narrative--boy meets girl, loses girl; meets, loses; meets, loses--lurks the deeply personal story of what it meant to be a 20th century man. Phillip Bowman is the archetype of the flawed, ambitious, lust-filled American male. He’s Don Draper. He’s Rabbit Angstrom. He’s your dad. He’s my dad. (Also named Phil; also from New Jersey.) What’s truly astounding here is the writing, from a master who happens to be an octogenarian. Salter crafts beautiful sentences. He creates characters, lives, entire worlds in just a page or two. He’s also capable of some blushingly evocative sex scenes--again, impressive for a man approaching 90. Profound and lush, this is a book to savor. It’s the sweeping story of a complicated, error-filled, fully wrung-out life. A guy’s life. A good life."
(See more of my Amazon Best of the Month reviews.)
All That Is
September 25, 2015
2.0 (faint and distant) STARS
Perhaps I’ve become addicted to … no that’s not correct … perhaps I’ve come to expect gruesome violence, sexual abuse, explicit sexual encounters often to the point of depraved deviance or some degree of pedophilia or child exploitation in every book I read these days. It seems the most popular books or those produced by new, up and coming authors invariably contain some version of these themes. Perhaps these themes are necessary to satisfy the demands of the marketplace. I wonder ...
... this book was just the opposite, a refreshingly simple yet thoughtful read featuring a comforting writing style but in the end, a read that lacked any bite or sting, no electrifying twists or turns, not a whimper of surprise or revelation. This was a very simple, straight forward story about searching for and finding love, losing love and growing older, maybe wiser. I think that was the point anyway. Hard to say. The author’s way with words kept me coming back for more but after a few chapters I got restless and fidgety, like a very long car ride – scenery is extraordinarily beautiful in the beginning but after a few hours that same beautiful scenery losses its luster very, very quickly.
Anyway, the story is about Philip Bowman, returning to America after serving in the U.S. Navy in the Pacific during WWII. He’s a book editor and loves the buzz of the literary world. Decades later, when U.S. officials are engaged in month after month of fruitless negotiations in Paris seeking an end to the Vietnam war, Bowman has married and divorced his wife Vivian, watched his affair with Edina in London slowly fade away and suffered bitter betrayal by Christine, the woman he truly adored.
There are a gazillion characters in this book, divorce and re-marriage are common occurrences and Philip’s sexual encounters frequent albeit modestly elucidated. The character development was extraordinarily thin but with so many characters, any expectations of deep character understanding are probably unrealistic. The tale had hints of soulful sorrow and melancholy reminiscence but nothing that ripped at my heartstrings.
Ok, my diplomatic gloves are off ... this book was a bore, a mild sedative, a hypnotic daydream. To be fair the story did make me take a look at where I’ve been in my life so far and consider what the years ahead have in store for me but more often than not I was screaming out loud for some action!
***big sigh of resignation*** Perhaps I am addicted to the violence and gore of newer fiction after all ...
June 2, 2017
Prior to reading 'All That Is', I had been hearing many positive things about the writing of James Salter. I picked this book up, not really knowing what to expect and now I can say that my feelings about this novel are complicated. First off, I want to say that James Salter writes beautifully… his prose flows and his descriptions of the characters and the settings are masterfully written. I was able to form a visual picture in my mind as I was reading , as if I was watching a film of what was transpiring.
Let me back up a bit… 'All That Is' is a story which occurs in the decades following World War II. As the story begins, we meet a young naval officer, Philip Bowman. He is returning to the United States after his experiences in battles off Okinawa. Philip is trying to determine what to do with his life and at first toys with the idea of becoming a journalist. When he discovers that newspapers are not hiring, he ultimately takes a job reading manuscripts for a small publishing house in New York. Although the job doesn't pay particularly well, Philip discovers that he enjoys the publishing business.. he has the feeling of fitting in and belonging in this world.
Mr. Salter's descriptions of the small publishing houses and how they functioned following World War II, were highly enjoyable to read. Reading about the small groups of publishing people gathering in apartments and engaging in conversations about books and authors long into the nights sounded like pure joy to me.. and I suspect will to EVERY book lover. The difficulty I had with the story ended up being the character of Philip Bowman. Initially, Philip's life, in terms of his career , was coming together nicely…. it was his loneliness and his desire to connect with a woman romantically that created a huge amount of upheaval for him and was the source of endless frustration for me.
As the novel proceeds, we see Philip begin a series of relationships with women who, one after the other, disappoint, betray, bewilder and ultimately leave him heartbroken. Initially, I felt sympathetic towards him and his plight… perhaps most people can relate to having chosen not so wisely in love at one time or another. But as I continued to follow his experiences, I couldn't help but be reminded of a movie from not so long ago entitled, 'He's Just Not That Into You'…. substitute 'she's' for 'he's' and you have a perfect description of Philip's encounters with women. The first woman he met… and married.. was Vivian. They met in a bar on St. Patrick's Day and honestly, from the very first meeting, their relationship felt awkward and stilted to me. Even after they had been married for a time, the relationship never 'felt' better to me. The marriage eventually ended and Philip moved on to Enid, Christine, and a very young woman (young enough to be his daughter with a couple of other complications thrown in which just increased the 'ick' factor for me!)…. none of these relationships flourished and in each of them, it felt to me as if Philip was feeling an attraction to women that was never truly reciprocated.
Okay.. I admit that perhaps Philip's disastrous and self-destructive relationship choices were simply a reflection of the basic differences between men and woman…. in how they choose a partner and view relationships. Perhaps Mr. Salter views relationships and how they should be quite differently from me. In fact, I'm almost sure that is the case. But I still could not keep my annoyance and frustration with Philip in check. After traversing several decades of his life and his self-destructive choices with regards to relationships, I could not help but wonder why he was not developing just A BIT more self-awareness. I could not fathom why, after several decades and more than a few failed relationships, why he just did not learn that perhaps always choosing the shiniest, prettiest bauble was not necessarily in his best interest.
I suppose my own advancing age has left me with decreasing amounts of patience when it comes to people's insistence on MAKING bad choices but never actually LEARNING from those mistakes. Or maybe part of my frustration with Philip Bowman is that he represents a cynicism and hopelessness toward the chance of a long lasting, successful relationship actually occurring between men and women…. I would like to be able to disagree with this cynicism.
Regardless, if you enjoy reading a book simply for the beauty of the language it contains, I can highly recommend this one. If you are inclined to feel impatient with people's innate foolishness when making important decisions, you may want to skip this one. I haven't given up on James Salter, however. His writing is just too gorgeous not to give him another try. I would give this book a 3.5 stars.
Let me back up a bit… 'All That Is' is a story which occurs in the decades following World War II. As the story begins, we meet a young naval officer, Philip Bowman. He is returning to the United States after his experiences in battles off Okinawa. Philip is trying to determine what to do with his life and at first toys with the idea of becoming a journalist. When he discovers that newspapers are not hiring, he ultimately takes a job reading manuscripts for a small publishing house in New York. Although the job doesn't pay particularly well, Philip discovers that he enjoys the publishing business.. he has the feeling of fitting in and belonging in this world.
Mr. Salter's descriptions of the small publishing houses and how they functioned following World War II, were highly enjoyable to read. Reading about the small groups of publishing people gathering in apartments and engaging in conversations about books and authors long into the nights sounded like pure joy to me.. and I suspect will to EVERY book lover. The difficulty I had with the story ended up being the character of Philip Bowman. Initially, Philip's life, in terms of his career , was coming together nicely…. it was his loneliness and his desire to connect with a woman romantically that created a huge amount of upheaval for him and was the source of endless frustration for me.
As the novel proceeds, we see Philip begin a series of relationships with women who, one after the other, disappoint, betray, bewilder and ultimately leave him heartbroken. Initially, I felt sympathetic towards him and his plight… perhaps most people can relate to having chosen not so wisely in love at one time or another. But as I continued to follow his experiences, I couldn't help but be reminded of a movie from not so long ago entitled, 'He's Just Not That Into You'…. substitute 'she's' for 'he's' and you have a perfect description of Philip's encounters with women. The first woman he met… and married.. was Vivian. They met in a bar on St. Patrick's Day and honestly, from the very first meeting, their relationship felt awkward and stilted to me. Even after they had been married for a time, the relationship never 'felt' better to me. The marriage eventually ended and Philip moved on to Enid, Christine, and a very young woman (young enough to be his daughter with a couple of other complications thrown in which just increased the 'ick' factor for me!)…. none of these relationships flourished and in each of them, it felt to me as if Philip was feeling an attraction to women that was never truly reciprocated.
Okay.. I admit that perhaps Philip's disastrous and self-destructive relationship choices were simply a reflection of the basic differences between men and woman…. in how they choose a partner and view relationships. Perhaps Mr. Salter views relationships and how they should be quite differently from me. In fact, I'm almost sure that is the case. But I still could not keep my annoyance and frustration with Philip in check. After traversing several decades of his life and his self-destructive choices with regards to relationships, I could not help but wonder why he was not developing just A BIT more self-awareness. I could not fathom why, after several decades and more than a few failed relationships, why he just did not learn that perhaps always choosing the shiniest, prettiest bauble was not necessarily in his best interest.
I suppose my own advancing age has left me with decreasing amounts of patience when it comes to people's insistence on MAKING bad choices but never actually LEARNING from those mistakes. Or maybe part of my frustration with Philip Bowman is that he represents a cynicism and hopelessness toward the chance of a long lasting, successful relationship actually occurring between men and women…. I would like to be able to disagree with this cynicism.
Regardless, if you enjoy reading a book simply for the beauty of the language it contains, I can highly recommend this one. If you are inclined to feel impatient with people's innate foolishness when making important decisions, you may want to skip this one. I haven't given up on James Salter, however. His writing is just too gorgeous not to give him another try. I would give this book a 3.5 stars.
May 20, 2016
What draws me to recommend this book is the writing. I thoroughly enjoy Salter's description of places and individuals. And sex - explicit but not too graphic and not rosily drawn in romantic words.
The places so wonderfully described are Manhattan and its suburbs. Paris, France. Spain. Thunderstorms. Beaches. Restaurants and bars. The publishing community as it was after the Second World War. The publishing houses are fictional but the atmosphere of the time feels genuine as well as the authors, poets, photographers and artists named. The central character, Philip Bowman, is an editor. He is born in Manhattan in 1925. We follow him in the years after the war through the 1980s. His life is dissolute. If you need a hero to enjoy a novel, look elsewhere. He is not a person like me, but he is a person searching for something, something not quite within his grasp. It is this that I think one can relate to. Life has an allure. Life is intoxicating. Moments of pleasure are there for the grabbing.
So why not more stars? Not because Philip is different from me, not because his choices are immoral, but because Philip remains at arm’s length. I came to know many secondary characters better than Philip. Yet at the same time I complete the novel feeling that Philip being Philip could not let anyone closer. That is quite simply who Philip was. You can ask why. You can also ask yourself if Philip's unremarkable life is so very different, not in the specifics, but in its general quality of life compared to most people's lives. No one's life is all that dramatic as novels draw the lives of books' heros and villains.
The audiobook narration by Joe Barrett was absolutely excellent. Women and men, those with a lisp, those from the South, from Spain, from France, each and every one could be identified from Barrett's meticulously correct intonations. Easy to follow. Perfect speed.
The places so wonderfully described are Manhattan and its suburbs. Paris, France. Spain. Thunderstorms. Beaches. Restaurants and bars. The publishing community as it was after the Second World War. The publishing houses are fictional but the atmosphere of the time feels genuine as well as the authors, poets, photographers and artists named. The central character, Philip Bowman, is an editor. He is born in Manhattan in 1925. We follow him in the years after the war through the 1980s. His life is dissolute. If you need a hero to enjoy a novel, look elsewhere. He is not a person like me, but he is a person searching for something, something not quite within his grasp. It is this that I think one can relate to. Life has an allure. Life is intoxicating. Moments of pleasure are there for the grabbing.
So why not more stars? Not because Philip is different from me, not because his choices are immoral, but because Philip remains at arm’s length. I came to know many secondary characters better than Philip. Yet at the same time I complete the novel feeling that Philip being Philip could not let anyone closer. That is quite simply who Philip was. You can ask why. You can also ask yourself if Philip's unremarkable life is so very different, not in the specifics, but in its general quality of life compared to most people's lives. No one's life is all that dramatic as novels draw the lives of books' heros and villains.
The audiobook narration by Joe Barrett was absolutely excellent. Women and men, those with a lisp, those from the South, from Spain, from France, each and every one could be identified from Barrett's meticulously correct intonations. Easy to follow. Perfect speed.
January 10, 2019
After the fabulous 'Light Years' this was a bit of a disappointment. Salter wrote this book when he was already in his 80s, long after his other works. Apparently he intentionally stripped his style of every fringe. And that results in a succession of chapters with short descriptions, fast dialogues, a skinny storyline, and that's it. Yes, that's all there is, as the title indicates. Salter consciously highlights the futility of the 'human condition': his main characters Philip Bowman and his fellow publisher Neil Eddins are really masculine men, they wander from woman to woman, are mainly attracted by their looks, and usually end up after an intense sensual period in typical 'talkless' relationships that suddenly break off; it is as if life is slipping past them, and that is it, yes that’s all there is to it. I prefer the rawness of 'Light Years' (see https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...).
April 9, 2013
I’m writing this review immediately after reading All That Is. I’m emotionally confused. James Salter did something to me in his writing that I never expected. I grew to love his concise words and phrasing. After taking a month to finish reading this book that I wasn’t sure that I could finish or wanted to, I feel uneasy. I also feel a small smile on my face for finishing the novel and finally becoming attached to the main character, Philip Bowman. It only took a month to do it. I’m left feeling as though I need a hug and an urge to never fear growing old.
I had never read anything by Salter before. I only knew of this book as one of the books people will be talking about in 2013. Before reading, I scanned a few snippets of reviews of his older works. One reviewer described Salter as having an “economy of prose.” No truer description has ever been made. The U.S. government may want to take some tips from him as his words and phrasing contain no fat, yet are effective enough to move the reader. For example, within one page, I went on a first date with two characters and witnessed their engagement. Their entire courtship was reduced to a few lines of text.
All That Is feels like a collection of short stories put together to make one story. Some stories don’t feel as if they are being told chronologically as many times I did not know the date or year of events until the end of the chapter. It was confusing every so often. It also ticked me off a bit because I’d imagine the characters in other clothes or with different hair styles only to find at the end of the chapter that we had progressed to the 70s and were no longer in the mid 60s. Salter may begin a chapter by introducing a new character with the narrator speaking about him as if we were old friends. It’s unnerving, diving directly into someone’s life and knowing the lies they tell themselves to feel better about their situation. The stories do connect, although, I did forget exactly the significance of some names and characters (please see above where it took me a month to finish this book). That took some of the enjoyment away from me.
I spent the better half of this book looking for the central conflict. The one we are shown initially within the description of the book or the set up within the first few lines. I was waiting on Bowman to fight for the love of one of the women he romanced. I was waiting on tragedy to befall him. I was waiting on a fantasy to occur. I was waiting on that happily ever after to arrive. But Salter doesn’t present that. It’s as if with his age, he speaks the truth about life and does it with a rare honesty that is refreshing. Happily ever afters don’t just fall into one’s lap, you have to work for them. His characters lie to themselves and to each other. They become complacent and accept unhappiness or what they deem to be happiness for survival or to avoid being lonely. It’s so real that it hurts. I urge to you take your time with this novel and soak in what Salter is describing.
Most novels, even the great ones, don’t pretend to be true. You believe them, they even become part of your life, but not as literal truth. This books seems to violate that.
I feel a strange attraction to Philip Bowman after finishing. My feelings towards him mirror the ebb and flow of the Pacific Ocean he sailed during WWII. The best way I can describe Bowman is to compare him to Don Draper from Mad Men in the first few seasons. I was intrigued by Bowman’s actions although I didn’t understand or agree with all of them. I wanted to comfort him during his return from the war, back to his sleepy hometown of Summitt, New York. His search for a job he felt meaningful and what matched his journalism major can be felt by many new and old college graduates. Bowman wants love. He wants to be loved and he wants someone to love him. I wanted him to find love even when I knew he was only hurting himself or someone else. Through all of Bowman’s romances, that’s what I wanted more than anything. I wanted the “this time, it’s going to happen for him” feeling to come. However much I wanted it to happen, I could always sense that that time hadn’t yet arrived. Salter had a way of showing me that the current woman Bowman was with, wasn’t right for him or vice versa from the character’s introduction. There was a time I hated Bowman. I understood his motives even if neither he nor the narrator knew about them, but that didn’t mean that I wasn’t disappointed with him and what he was doing. But like real life, true life, we all make mistakes and we all fall short. As I said before, I was waiting on a fantasy, but Salter served up real human action.
He felt sick with the memory of it. He was sick with all the memories. They had done things together that would make her look back one day and see that he was the one who truly mattered. That was a sentimental idea, the stuff of a woman’s novel. She would never look back. He knew that. He amounted to a few pages. Not even. He hated her, but what could he do?
There are many love scenes. None are particularly vulgar, but they do have erotic qualities about them. Just as with other parts of the novel, Salter is fiscally responsible with his words yet I got just enough to fill in the blanks. Philip goes from being unsure about himself to feeling confidence and comfort in his actions. He knows what he likes and that is what makes women attracted to him, even as his age increases. To be frank, Salter enjoys the word “cock.” That is all.
I’d recommend this book for someone who wants something different from the ordinary. All That Is doesn’t feel ordinary at all. This isn’t just a book, it’s literature. Salter uses his characters to teach lessons about real love, friendship, trust, and honesty. He didn’t just tell a story about a man’s life, Salter revealed what it is to live with hopes, dreams, and failures. Just like any good short story, All That Is left me haunted, it left me wondering, it left me hoping, and it left me doubting. This is the first time I’ve ever cried writing a review. I didn’t know this story would affect me as much as it did.
“Have you ever fallen in love?”
“Fallen in love? Been in love, you mean. Yes, of course.”
“I mean fallen. You never forget it.”
I was graced with an advanced copy of All That Is in return for an honest review. Solus ego ueritatem scripturus.
http://www.literatiliteraturelovers.com
I had never read anything by Salter before. I only knew of this book as one of the books people will be talking about in 2013. Before reading, I scanned a few snippets of reviews of his older works. One reviewer described Salter as having an “economy of prose.” No truer description has ever been made. The U.S. government may want to take some tips from him as his words and phrasing contain no fat, yet are effective enough to move the reader. For example, within one page, I went on a first date with two characters and witnessed their engagement. Their entire courtship was reduced to a few lines of text.
All That Is feels like a collection of short stories put together to make one story. Some stories don’t feel as if they are being told chronologically as many times I did not know the date or year of events until the end of the chapter. It was confusing every so often. It also ticked me off a bit because I’d imagine the characters in other clothes or with different hair styles only to find at the end of the chapter that we had progressed to the 70s and were no longer in the mid 60s. Salter may begin a chapter by introducing a new character with the narrator speaking about him as if we were old friends. It’s unnerving, diving directly into someone’s life and knowing the lies they tell themselves to feel better about their situation. The stories do connect, although, I did forget exactly the significance of some names and characters (please see above where it took me a month to finish this book). That took some of the enjoyment away from me.
I spent the better half of this book looking for the central conflict. The one we are shown initially within the description of the book or the set up within the first few lines. I was waiting on Bowman to fight for the love of one of the women he romanced. I was waiting on tragedy to befall him. I was waiting on a fantasy to occur. I was waiting on that happily ever after to arrive. But Salter doesn’t present that. It’s as if with his age, he speaks the truth about life and does it with a rare honesty that is refreshing. Happily ever afters don’t just fall into one’s lap, you have to work for them. His characters lie to themselves and to each other. They become complacent and accept unhappiness or what they deem to be happiness for survival or to avoid being lonely. It’s so real that it hurts. I urge to you take your time with this novel and soak in what Salter is describing.
Most novels, even the great ones, don’t pretend to be true. You believe them, they even become part of your life, but not as literal truth. This books seems to violate that.
I feel a strange attraction to Philip Bowman after finishing. My feelings towards him mirror the ebb and flow of the Pacific Ocean he sailed during WWII. The best way I can describe Bowman is to compare him to Don Draper from Mad Men in the first few seasons. I was intrigued by Bowman’s actions although I didn’t understand or agree with all of them. I wanted to comfort him during his return from the war, back to his sleepy hometown of Summitt, New York. His search for a job he felt meaningful and what matched his journalism major can be felt by many new and old college graduates. Bowman wants love. He wants to be loved and he wants someone to love him. I wanted him to find love even when I knew he was only hurting himself or someone else. Through all of Bowman’s romances, that’s what I wanted more than anything. I wanted the “this time, it’s going to happen for him” feeling to come. However much I wanted it to happen, I could always sense that that time hadn’t yet arrived. Salter had a way of showing me that the current woman Bowman was with, wasn’t right for him or vice versa from the character’s introduction. There was a time I hated Bowman. I understood his motives even if neither he nor the narrator knew about them, but that didn’t mean that I wasn’t disappointed with him and what he was doing. But like real life, true life, we all make mistakes and we all fall short. As I said before, I was waiting on a fantasy, but Salter served up real human action.
He felt sick with the memory of it. He was sick with all the memories. They had done things together that would make her look back one day and see that he was the one who truly mattered. That was a sentimental idea, the stuff of a woman’s novel. She would never look back. He knew that. He amounted to a few pages. Not even. He hated her, but what could he do?
There are many love scenes. None are particularly vulgar, but they do have erotic qualities about them. Just as with other parts of the novel, Salter is fiscally responsible with his words yet I got just enough to fill in the blanks. Philip goes from being unsure about himself to feeling confidence and comfort in his actions. He knows what he likes and that is what makes women attracted to him, even as his age increases. To be frank, Salter enjoys the word “cock.” That is all.
I’d recommend this book for someone who wants something different from the ordinary. All That Is doesn’t feel ordinary at all. This isn’t just a book, it’s literature. Salter uses his characters to teach lessons about real love, friendship, trust, and honesty. He didn’t just tell a story about a man’s life, Salter revealed what it is to live with hopes, dreams, and failures. Just like any good short story, All That Is left me haunted, it left me wondering, it left me hoping, and it left me doubting. This is the first time I’ve ever cried writing a review. I didn’t know this story would affect me as much as it did.
“Have you ever fallen in love?”
“Fallen in love? Been in love, you mean. Yes, of course.”
“I mean fallen. You never forget it.”
I was graced with an advanced copy of All That Is in return for an honest review. Solus ego ueritatem scripturus.
http://www.literatiliteraturelovers.com
June 1, 2013
What if a woman had written this book--stylistically interesting in places, but basically a babbling chronicle of all the lovers a main (female) character had had? Wouldn't that be dismissed as chick lit?
Can't jump on the bandwagon with this one. So many people are praising the style/beautiful writing, but having just read Light Years a few months ago, this seems a little clunky in comparison. Also, shouldn't an author evolve over the years, stylistically? Does he really want to say the same thing with his language over and over?
I listened to a (boring, uninformed, juvenile) conversation over on Book Fight, and someone there spoke of sentences that don't call attention to themselves and let the story come out. Well, a) there IS no story in this book, and b) Salter's sentences absolutely do call attention to themselves. That's why he's known for being a stylist. He flattens semi-colons to commas, stuffs all kinds of things that don't belong together into the same paragraph, or even the same sentence. Conceptually, I mean. What can he have in mind if not to pull the reader out of the story and make her think? For example, an elderly woman, about to die (paraphrasing bec I'm too lazy to look it up): The house had flowers in it nearly every day, usually yellow jonquils, and she was dressed nicely, but she fell.
I suppose he's saying that even though she had it together enough to keep her house and personal presentation nice, she was still frail enough to fall and injure herself. Well, okay, but that "but" requires the reader to stop and translate the sentence. If he were not calling attention to his sentences, he would have written something more transparent, such as "Even though her house had such lovely flowers, and even though she was dressed well, she no longer could control her balance, AND she fell."
Not saying it's a better sentence, just refuting that ridiculous notion that Salter's lines don't call attention to themselves. I don't mind writing that pulls me out of the "story" and makes me think. Also, much of the writing was just flat and boring, so these supposedly great sentences IMO were not impressive.
Story: Well. It's a string of women the MC fucks over time, maybe looking for real love, maybe unable to commit. There is nothing psychological in this novel (the main way you see the French influence, I think). No one really reacts to anything, except one character who loses his wife and child. Otherwise, there's no emotion in this book, just a series of photographs, all of which objectify the women. Every single woman in the book is evaluated in terms of her attractiveness.
Also, we are told, for every character introduced, even in passing, how many times they've been married/divorced. Everyone is on marriage number 2 or 3, and no one thinks there's anything wrong with having affairs. NO ONE. Statistically, this seems unlikely. Both seem unlikely. In 1970, say, how many people had been divorced at all, let alone multiple times? My parents got divorced around 1973 and were among the first in our area. There was stigma for it--as a kid, you were seen as damaged or viewed by teachers as dangerous, even, if your parents were divorced. So I highly doubt that every single person in the MC's circle is several times divorced.
Also, it seems to me that people who behave this way must be fundamentally unhappy. And yet there's no suggestion of this in most cases, and even when the glittery surface cracks, we don't get any insight into their unhappiness.
I'm okay with a meandering, beautifully written story, but I don't think this is that beautiful (I read The Burgess Boys right before this book. If you want to talk about amazing sentences, let's go talk about that book). So, overall, it doesn't come off. Not sorry I read it, but doesn't live up to the hype.
Salter reminds me of my father --they'd be the same age. My father was constantly looking at women, constantly evaluating--Oh, look at that perfect hourglass shape. Also, I think Salter's racism is inescapable. You might say he's just chronicling the attitudes of this set of people, but no one reacts, no one gets upset by someone saying nigger, and even the MC's experience of the Virgin Islands is that they're mostly black and full of lazy people. I'll be glad when this type of man has entirely died out. What a dinosaur.
This is dick lit of the first order.
Can't jump on the bandwagon with this one. So many people are praising the style/beautiful writing, but having just read Light Years a few months ago, this seems a little clunky in comparison. Also, shouldn't an author evolve over the years, stylistically? Does he really want to say the same thing with his language over and over?
I listened to a (boring, uninformed, juvenile) conversation over on Book Fight, and someone there spoke of sentences that don't call attention to themselves and let the story come out. Well, a) there IS no story in this book, and b) Salter's sentences absolutely do call attention to themselves. That's why he's known for being a stylist. He flattens semi-colons to commas, stuffs all kinds of things that don't belong together into the same paragraph, or even the same sentence. Conceptually, I mean. What can he have in mind if not to pull the reader out of the story and make her think? For example, an elderly woman, about to die (paraphrasing bec I'm too lazy to look it up): The house had flowers in it nearly every day, usually yellow jonquils, and she was dressed nicely, but she fell.
I suppose he's saying that even though she had it together enough to keep her house and personal presentation nice, she was still frail enough to fall and injure herself. Well, okay, but that "but" requires the reader to stop and translate the sentence. If he were not calling attention to his sentences, he would have written something more transparent, such as "Even though her house had such lovely flowers, and even though she was dressed well, she no longer could control her balance, AND she fell."
Not saying it's a better sentence, just refuting that ridiculous notion that Salter's lines don't call attention to themselves. I don't mind writing that pulls me out of the "story" and makes me think. Also, much of the writing was just flat and boring, so these supposedly great sentences IMO were not impressive.
Story: Well. It's a string of women the MC fucks over time, maybe looking for real love, maybe unable to commit. There is nothing psychological in this novel (the main way you see the French influence, I think). No one really reacts to anything, except one character who loses his wife and child. Otherwise, there's no emotion in this book, just a series of photographs, all of which objectify the women. Every single woman in the book is evaluated in terms of her attractiveness.
Also, we are told, for every character introduced, even in passing, how many times they've been married/divorced. Everyone is on marriage number 2 or 3, and no one thinks there's anything wrong with having affairs. NO ONE. Statistically, this seems unlikely. Both seem unlikely. In 1970, say, how many people had been divorced at all, let alone multiple times? My parents got divorced around 1973 and were among the first in our area. There was stigma for it--as a kid, you were seen as damaged or viewed by teachers as dangerous, even, if your parents were divorced. So I highly doubt that every single person in the MC's circle is several times divorced.
Also, it seems to me that people who behave this way must be fundamentally unhappy. And yet there's no suggestion of this in most cases, and even when the glittery surface cracks, we don't get any insight into their unhappiness.
I'm okay with a meandering, beautifully written story, but I don't think this is that beautiful (I read The Burgess Boys right before this book. If you want to talk about amazing sentences, let's go talk about that book). So, overall, it doesn't come off. Not sorry I read it, but doesn't live up to the hype.
Salter reminds me of my father --they'd be the same age. My father was constantly looking at women, constantly evaluating--Oh, look at that perfect hourglass shape. Also, I think Salter's racism is inescapable. You might say he's just chronicling the attitudes of this set of people, but no one reacts, no one gets upset by someone saying nigger, and even the MC's experience of the Virgin Islands is that they're mostly black and full of lazy people. I'll be glad when this type of man has entirely died out. What a dinosaur.
This is dick lit of the first order.
February 11, 2017
My first time to read a James Salter book. This one was published in 2013, two years before he died. He was 88 years old when this book was published.
One of my ten favorite books is Honore de Balzac's 1835 novel, Old Goriot (5 stars). This led me to many other books about old age. I am 52 years old and it is a bit early for me to empathize with characters in their twilight years. However, for me, this is akin to readers who even when they are old are still fond of sci-fi, graphic novels, or romance novels. Being old facing eventual death has a lure for me. I think that it is the final test of one's character. I think it is the most dramatic phase, albeit short and could be fleeting, in one's life. Probably, next to one's birth, one's death is the defining phase of one's life. When I think of my dead father, I would like to think of him alive and happy. However, his wasted body fighting with cancer or his dead body in the coffin a few minutes before he was interred always follow and sometimes dominate his images in my mind.
What attracted me to this book was it's memoir feels. We all know that non-fiction works are basically based on author's own experience or imagination. This not being a fan or speculative fiction or simply an escapist work and penned by a PEN/Faulkner winner means that there is wisdom in this work. So, I bought this book during 2015 Manila International Book Fair and read the following year. It is only now that I found time to review this on Goodreads because of the hectic schedule at work and at home. We have been without a housemaid for more than a year now.
Salter did not disappoint me. Based on Wiki Salter used to be a US Air Force pilot and officer, journalist and writer. His main character in this book Philip Bowman follows the same life path. You can feel his sincerity in every page of this book. Sincerity that stems out from his being the same as his character.
My favorite passage in the book is this one that seems to describe the final hour as imagine by the character. I could not help but imagine Salter imagining his own death and it gave me goosebumps while reading:
It made me imagine of a rich man dying in a lonely and dimly lit room with just a nurse. There could be just a rosary or a picture of a loved one on his hand. This despite the wealth that he accumulated in his life. This despite all the people he loved and those who loved him in return. We were born alone and will die alone.
Overall, this is a delightful simple yet sincere book. Recommended to all those who are fond of memoirs and stories that cover almost the whole life of the character. I always like this kind of book.
One of my ten favorite books is Honore de Balzac's 1835 novel, Old Goriot (5 stars). This led me to many other books about old age. I am 52 years old and it is a bit early for me to empathize with characters in their twilight years. However, for me, this is akin to readers who even when they are old are still fond of sci-fi, graphic novels, or romance novels. Being old facing eventual death has a lure for me. I think that it is the final test of one's character. I think it is the most dramatic phase, albeit short and could be fleeting, in one's life. Probably, next to one's birth, one's death is the defining phase of one's life. When I think of my dead father, I would like to think of him alive and happy. However, his wasted body fighting with cancer or his dead body in the coffin a few minutes before he was interred always follow and sometimes dominate his images in my mind.
What attracted me to this book was it's memoir feels. We all know that non-fiction works are basically based on author's own experience or imagination. This not being a fan or speculative fiction or simply an escapist work and penned by a PEN/Faulkner winner means that there is wisdom in this work. So, I bought this book during 2015 Manila International Book Fair and read the following year. It is only now that I found time to review this on Goodreads because of the hectic schedule at work and at home. We have been without a housemaid for more than a year now.
Salter did not disappoint me. Based on Wiki Salter used to be a US Air Force pilot and officer, journalist and writer. His main character in this book Philip Bowman follows the same life path. You can feel his sincerity in every page of this book. Sincerity that stems out from his being the same as his character.
My favorite passage in the book is this one that seems to describe the final hour as imagine by the character. I could not help but imagine Salter imagining his own death and it gave me goosebumps while reading:
"He had always seen it as the dark river and the long lines of those waiting for the boatman, waiting in resignation and the patience that eternity required, stripped of all but a single, last possession, a ring, a photograph, or letter that represented everything dearest and forever left behind that they somehow hoped, it being so small, they would be able to take with them. He had such a letter, from Enid. The days I spent with you were the greatest days in my life..."
It made me imagine of a rich man dying in a lonely and dimly lit room with just a nurse. There could be just a rosary or a picture of a loved one on his hand. This despite the wealth that he accumulated in his life. This despite all the people he loved and those who loved him in return. We were born alone and will die alone.
Overall, this is a delightful simple yet sincere book. Recommended to all those who are fond of memoirs and stories that cover almost the whole life of the character. I always like this kind of book.
March 28, 2013
It's silly to compare Salter's All That Is to his previous masterpieces: Light Years, Burning the Days, A Sport and a Pastime. His stories. Not all of them, of course, but quite a few will endure. Still, the novel's terrific and will engender, I know, a massive reconsideration of his work, which is neglected, under-read, misunderstood, too brutal and unsparing for some, too highbrow for others, too sexual, too white, too whatever. Whatever. If you miss him, you've missed something great, and here's my recommendation: Don't start with this novel. Start with any of the above I've mentioned (the story collections are Last Night and Dusk and Other Stories), working your way toward this late symphony. Perhaps you'll understand why he's a writer's writer. That's to say that writer's swoon over him, wish they could pull off his effects, write so piercingly and un-sentimentally. Or not. But life is like Salter writes. Period.
September 20, 2016
My response to James Salter's "All That Is" can be summed up in one question: "Is that all?"
I did not expect not to like this book since I have much respect for Salter's prose style and did enjoy "Light Years" and "Dusk and Other Stories". The prose is still commendable in this novel but it is really "all that is".
The story revolves around Philip Bowman, a young navigation officer who returns from WW2, and starts to find his way in life - getting a degree, finding a job, meeting women and getting married. Bowman becomes a successful editor with a publishing company; the entire story is about him getting into an endless train wreck of relationships with several women initiated almost always by the slightest bit of physical and/or sexual attraction.
I wanted to abandon this book but I plodded on in hopes that I might yet find some redeeming quality. There is none. A few things about this book just did not work for me.
First, Salter frequently interrupts his storytelling on a focal character by interjecting with a new and meandering thread a myriad of other minor characters, many of whom are quickly forgotten and never appear again. The abruptness of this interferes with the main story surrounding Bowman and whichever woman is the flavor of the month. There is also no plot to give the story direction.
Second, there is not one character I care about in this book. Bowman's mother dislikes his wife (Vivian Amussen) because she thinks "Vivian had no soul". Well, Bowman has no soul too. He is a man for whom the lust of the flesh reigns supreme.
Third, the story is shallow and especially depressing and repugnant in its unrelenting portrayal of vapid lives. The many publishers Bowman meets in the course of his work are all alike in their having had at least three mistresses or wives, are hungry for sex and also starved by it. The women behave likewise. After a while, Bowman’s misogyny and sexual exploits become predictable and nauseating.
One star for the star in Salter’s prose - That Is All.
I did not expect not to like this book since I have much respect for Salter's prose style and did enjoy "Light Years" and "Dusk and Other Stories". The prose is still commendable in this novel but it is really "all that is".
The story revolves around Philip Bowman, a young navigation officer who returns from WW2, and starts to find his way in life - getting a degree, finding a job, meeting women and getting married. Bowman becomes a successful editor with a publishing company; the entire story is about him getting into an endless train wreck of relationships with several women initiated almost always by the slightest bit of physical and/or sexual attraction.
I wanted to abandon this book but I plodded on in hopes that I might yet find some redeeming quality. There is none. A few things about this book just did not work for me.
First, Salter frequently interrupts his storytelling on a focal character by interjecting with a new and meandering thread a myriad of other minor characters, many of whom are quickly forgotten and never appear again. The abruptness of this interferes with the main story surrounding Bowman and whichever woman is the flavor of the month. There is also no plot to give the story direction.
Second, there is not one character I care about in this book. Bowman's mother dislikes his wife (Vivian Amussen) because she thinks "Vivian had no soul". Well, Bowman has no soul too. He is a man for whom the lust of the flesh reigns supreme.
Third, the story is shallow and especially depressing and repugnant in its unrelenting portrayal of vapid lives. The many publishers Bowman meets in the course of his work are all alike in their having had at least three mistresses or wives, are hungry for sex and also starved by it. The women behave likewise. After a while, Bowman’s misogyny and sexual exploits become predictable and nauseating.
One star for the star in Salter’s prose - That Is All.
February 8, 2024
When in doubt as to what my next read should be, I would turn to my trusty literary page-a-day calendar. Though older, gifted for the 2020 year, it often steered me in the right direction. Anyways, as a cheapskate who clearly does not feel the desire for the ‘latest and greatest’; having an oracle from years hence was fine. One of the entries was for a James Salter collection of stories. The way it went on and on, it sounded purely orgasmic. Due to its obscure nature and age, my library did not have that selection, but lo and behold, it had this one. Feeling adventurous, I choose it and doubly so, I made it an audiobook version. Needless to say that was a mistake. His trademark prose and sensual interludes were lost on me as I was doing a menial chore such as picking up dog shit or furiously scrubbing the toilet to get the rust ring out. Instead I was left with a MC in Phillip Bowman, who’s largely depicted as a mediocrity, but hobnobs with the wealthy, beds plenty of women yet has a nihilistic streak. The one truly transformative experience in his life was getting torpedoed by a Japanese ship in the Pacific and he longs for that “high” like a drug addict. He spends the remainder of his life as an editor in a small New York publishing house, on the search for the next literary star. Though he considers himself to be a modern day man, we get to see enough of his life for that theory to be extinguished as the world evolves but he remains in traction. He marries, he divorces, he has affairs, he lusts, he goes on vacations to Europe at the drop of a hat, he discovers new talent, and he goes to dinner parties. I read a glowing New York Times article extolling the “quotidian quality” of this work, but it seemed more fantasy than reality. Even in old age, he lets his pecker do the picking and mixed with his spite he ends up in a disturbing situation. He has lived a charmed life, filled with journeys, yet he still is largely indifferent. As a reader, why should I care about a venial character that has opportunities and women thrown at him? He may have garnered sympathy, if we knew more about his upbringing besides that he did not have a father and was close to his uncle. Another thing that did not work as a listen was the constantly changing viewpoints. Instead of creating a coherent collage, there was chaos. All of a sudden, the performer would go from a baritone to a soprano or from a mid-Atlantic accent to a Southern drawl. While, overall this leads to much confusion on my part, I did find one of the accents from a dandified coworker to be most amusing, primarily because he sounded like Gilbert Dautetrive an ancillary character on King of the Hill. Some people really loved this-Malcolm Jones of the New York Times sure as shit did, but it was not for me. As an audiobook it negated John Salter’s best qualities and amplified his weaknesses. The profundities were lost on me and Phillip Bowman seemed less like a man who has wrestled with a life of mediocrity and disappointments and more as a man who not only conquered much of what he sought to, but was also apathetic about it. Needless to say this was a 2 star listen for me.
October 19, 2021
James Salter has a very distinctive writing style which I greatly enjoyed. Essentially it's about one man's long quest for love. Initially we see Philip Bowman as a young naval officer sailing towards Okinawa and then as an aspiring journalist and eventually an editor in New York. Where this novel came awry for me was the author's decision to veer away from the central character and give isolated chapters to some of the people he comes to know. It was an interesting decision but didn't quite work for me. That said, the writing was top notch.
March 31, 2022
Dotage. Everyone stood and clapped.
June 24, 2021
I’m a Bowman
In “Tutto quel che è la vita” ci sono più personaggi che in un romanzo russo. La stragrande maggioranza di essi ha un’importanza marginale, la loro marginalità per quanto ben descritta finisce per confondere il lettore distraendolo dai personaggi principali; di uno solo si tiene continuamente traccia: Philip Bowman, tutta la vita minuto per minuto è la sua. Lo incontriamo nel 1944 ufficiale di marina in acque nipponiche e non lo lasciamo più, nonostante dopo cento pagine ci si rammarichi che non sia annegato. Con lui si andrà ovunque nel mondo, con lui si leggerà di decine di scrittori a causa del suo lavoro post bellico:
«Sei un editore?» « Non esattamente. Faccio l'editor. Un editore ha responsabilità diverse. » «Di che tipo di libri ti occupi? » « Soprattutto romanzi » rispose lui.
Come andare controvoglia a cena da qualcuno che poi ti sequestra e non ti lascia andar via nonostante sia già stato fatto il bis degli amari e tu abbia guadagnato con incedere da rugbista l’androne d’ingresso munito di soprabito. Per non abbandonare il libro ho dovuto mantenere una calma zen, nemmeno la curiosità di scoprire dove Salter sarebbe andato a parare m’era d’aiuto, immaginavo che non sarebbe approdato da nessuna parte e che avrebbe continuato ad aggiungere personaggi marginali anche dopo i ringraziamenti finali.
Bowman (arciere) è un cupido che lavora in proprio, ha fatto più centri lui di Marco Galiazzo. Non sono stati i centri però a sfinirmi, ma la cronaca di tutti i tiri nel paglione, non importava chi li scoccasse, se fossero di prova o di gara.
Nella presentazione del libro mi ha divertito ciò che ha scritto Jhumpa Lahiri:
«Leggere Salter mi ha insegnato a condensare la mia scrittura fino all'essenziale. Insistere sulle parole giuste e a lavorare per sottrazione…»
A me vien da pensare che leggendo Salter abbia capito tutto ciò che non va fatto in un romanzo, nel dubbio però, qualora il buon Salter le fosse stato maestro, eviterò di leggerla.
I’m a Bowman.. I’m a Bowman
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XM0TU...
In “Tutto quel che è la vita” ci sono più personaggi che in un romanzo russo. La stragrande maggioranza di essi ha un’importanza marginale, la loro marginalità per quanto ben descritta finisce per confondere il lettore distraendolo dai personaggi principali; di uno solo si tiene continuamente traccia: Philip Bowman, tutta la vita minuto per minuto è la sua. Lo incontriamo nel 1944 ufficiale di marina in acque nipponiche e non lo lasciamo più, nonostante dopo cento pagine ci si rammarichi che non sia annegato. Con lui si andrà ovunque nel mondo, con lui si leggerà di decine di scrittori a causa del suo lavoro post bellico:
«Sei un editore?» « Non esattamente. Faccio l'editor. Un editore ha responsabilità diverse. » «Di che tipo di libri ti occupi? » « Soprattutto romanzi » rispose lui.
Come andare controvoglia a cena da qualcuno che poi ti sequestra e non ti lascia andar via nonostante sia già stato fatto il bis degli amari e tu abbia guadagnato con incedere da rugbista l’androne d’ingresso munito di soprabito. Per non abbandonare il libro ho dovuto mantenere una calma zen, nemmeno la curiosità di scoprire dove Salter sarebbe andato a parare m’era d’aiuto, immaginavo che non sarebbe approdato da nessuna parte e che avrebbe continuato ad aggiungere personaggi marginali anche dopo i ringraziamenti finali.
Bowman (arciere) è un cupido che lavora in proprio, ha fatto più centri lui di Marco Galiazzo. Non sono stati i centri però a sfinirmi, ma la cronaca di tutti i tiri nel paglione, non importava chi li scoccasse, se fossero di prova o di gara.
Nella presentazione del libro mi ha divertito ciò che ha scritto Jhumpa Lahiri:
«Leggere Salter mi ha insegnato a condensare la mia scrittura fino all'essenziale. Insistere sulle parole giuste e a lavorare per sottrazione…»
A me vien da pensare che leggendo Salter abbia capito tutto ciò che non va fatto in un romanzo, nel dubbio però, qualora il buon Salter le fosse stato maestro, eviterò di leggerla.
I’m a Bowman.. I’m a Bowman
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XM0TU...
June 3, 2013
There is an act of revenge near the end of the book that stopped me cold. Other reviews have described it, so I won’t. Better to discover it as you read the book--and in fact, as you get close you’ll see it coming. The revenge is stunning in its cruelty, but what I find untenable is how indifferently Philip Bowman carries out the act, and how easily Salter lets Bowman off the hook. Only pages later he’s having another love affair, then another, then the book ends. But I’m stuck 30 pages back. Salter writes the last four chapters as if his readers will forgive Philip Bowman--and I can’t.
I’ve read all of Salter’s books. I love A Sport and A Pastime, Burning The Days and Life Is Meals, a book he wrote with his wife. But for me, Salter’s masterpiece is Light Years. I keep a copy between my mattress and headboard and have been reading it, repeatedly, for almost 20 years. For me, in all of literature there is no greater book.
As All That Is unfolded, I wondered about Salter’s focus. Characters drop in out of nowhere, tilt and disappear. This happens in life, of course, but at times the progress of the novel felt oddly random. That said, if the book had been 3,000 pages long instead of 300, I would have read it all with fascination. I love how Salter writes. I can hardly believe I’m giving a book of his only four stars. But the final chapters of All That Is seem to have come from a sleepwalker. My faith in Salter is great, and usually when he surprises me I slow down, read more carefully and learn something. But when I go back to the ending of All That Is, I can’t stand it.
I’ve read all of Salter’s books. I love A Sport and A Pastime, Burning The Days and Life Is Meals, a book he wrote with his wife. But for me, Salter’s masterpiece is Light Years. I keep a copy between my mattress and headboard and have been reading it, repeatedly, for almost 20 years. For me, in all of literature there is no greater book.
As All That Is unfolded, I wondered about Salter’s focus. Characters drop in out of nowhere, tilt and disappear. This happens in life, of course, but at times the progress of the novel felt oddly random. That said, if the book had been 3,000 pages long instead of 300, I would have read it all with fascination. I love how Salter writes. I can hardly believe I’m giving a book of his only four stars. But the final chapters of All That Is seem to have come from a sleepwalker. My faith in Salter is great, and usually when he surprises me I slow down, read more carefully and learn something. But when I go back to the ending of All That Is, I can’t stand it.
March 26, 2022
All That Is is a dark novel, but it's dark due to Salter’s manipulation of life as opposed to the consequences of the story. It's this manipulation that pulled me away from the reality that Salter was trying to create.
Tragedy continuously strikes the main character and when additional darkness is needed Salter dips into the supporting characters and creates bad happenings for them too. Throughout the novel, tragedy strikes those with little presence in the plot and when their tragedy is complete, they simply disappear.
As Salters last novel, it all felt like cynicism was the driving force. He comes across as old writer telling his readers that "all that is" in life is comprised of hardship, loss, and sadness; to which I say, there is much more than that.
Tragedy continuously strikes the main character and when additional darkness is needed Salter dips into the supporting characters and creates bad happenings for them too. Throughout the novel, tragedy strikes those with little presence in the plot and when their tragedy is complete, they simply disappear.
As Salters last novel, it all felt like cynicism was the driving force. He comes across as old writer telling his readers that "all that is" in life is comprised of hardship, loss, and sadness; to which I say, there is much more than that.
August 11, 2013
I got this book based on a glowing review in a NYTimes book review. In that review, it said something like 'people unfamiliar with James Salter should probably start with a more accessible book of his, like A Sport and a Pasttime, as this is one of his most difficult works to date.'
A ha, I scoffed. I read books like they're going out of style. How "difficult" can this be? I'm up for a challenge! Bring it on, Salter.
Let me tell you, this is a difficult book, and a gorgeous book, and even though I didn't understand this book at all, and it's confusing and the characters bounce around and I didn't get a handle on ANYTHING until 3/4s of the way through, just about....**deep breaths**....it's got five stars. I mean, there are lines that you'll read over and over because he nails it. You're right there, in the scene, whatever that scene is. 1960s New York. 1980s Paris. You're there, with the main character, trying to figure out women, trying to figure out what's going wrong with every single romantic relationship you've ever had and nothing is working out and that's alright too.
Basically, it's about a guy who has terrible luck in the romance department. At least, I think that's what it's about. I have no idea.
A ha, I scoffed. I read books like they're going out of style. How "difficult" can this be? I'm up for a challenge! Bring it on, Salter.
Let me tell you, this is a difficult book, and a gorgeous book, and even though I didn't understand this book at all, and it's confusing and the characters bounce around and I didn't get a handle on ANYTHING until 3/4s of the way through, just about....**deep breaths**....it's got five stars. I mean, there are lines that you'll read over and over because he nails it. You're right there, in the scene, whatever that scene is. 1960s New York. 1980s Paris. You're there, with the main character, trying to figure out women, trying to figure out what's going wrong with every single romantic relationship you've ever had and nothing is working out and that's alright too.
Basically, it's about a guy who has terrible luck in the romance department. At least, I think that's what it's about. I have no idea.
December 12, 2013
“There comes a time when you realize that everything is a dream, and only those things preserved in writing have any possibility of being real.”
Hmmm. I'm of two minds on this one. On the one hand: WOW. James Salter is an incredible writer. His descriptive style is flawless: clear, concise, creative, and imparted with gorgeous prose that has a poet's precision. On one character's drunk mother: "Her voice slurred a little but she rode over it as if it were a fleck of tobacco on her tongue, as if she could pause and wipe it away with a finger." Surveying a party, an "older woman with a nose as long as an index finger was eating greedily, and the man with her blew his nose in the linen napkin, a gentleman, then.”
My copy of this book is a sea of highlights: fascinating descriptions, intriguing observations, and, frequently, just a neat turn of phrase that I liked the sound of. I think the last time I left a book so smeared with highlights was the last time I read a book by E.M. Forster. Salter's skill with a pen definitely makes him deserve the company, although I would say that Salter's style has a slightly more mid-to-late-20th century feel to it. There are passages in All That Is that could come straight out of a Salinger novel or a Raymond Carver story, and I can think of no higher praise than that. It makes me ashamed that until this book was released, I had never heard of James Salter.
I suppose that isn't so far-fetched, given that it had been thirty-five years since Salter's last novel. I wasn't even born yet. But in that time he did release two volumes of short stories, one volume of poetry, a collection of travel essays, and a book about food (the last one written with his wife). So the book nerd in me does feel a wee bit chastened. Mostly, though, I feel relieved that I did find him. There's a joy in discovering someone who can write so well that their talent alone thrills you as you read.
The problem is that the thrill of Salter's writing is the only thrill to be found here. For long stretches of time it feels like the narrative is going nowhere. Yes, the writer is skilled enough to keep you going, but there were countless times during the process that I found myself wondering where, exactly, the destination was, and when we might finally get there. It dangerously toes the line of plodding, and in some cases I would argue that it goes over. Even if only by a hair's breadth. Part of me feels bad criticizing this, since it seems to be a goal of Salter's to revel in the quotidian details of Philip Bowman's life. After all, the quotidian is what we spend a great deal of time on in our own lives. Which may just make it the essence of life. Whether or not you want to read about it or escape from it in your reading time is a decision only you can make.
Characters come and go, sometimes all too briefly. Some get a short glance while others step into the spotlight. Again, this is meant to mirror everyday life. In his 1997 memoir Salter notes: “If you can think of life, for a moment, as a large house with a nursery, living and dining rooms, bedrooms, study, and so forth, all unfamiliar and bright, the chapters which follow are, in a way, like looking through the windows of this house. Certain occupants will be glimpsed only briefly. Visitors come and go. At some windows, you may wish to stay longer, but alas. As with any house, all within cannot be seen.” So it is with the narrative of All That Is.
I'd be lying if I told you that I didn't occasionally find it frustrating. Not just because of the sensation of plodding. Salter is a strong enough writer to deserve a little patience. But because it frequently doesn't feel like there's a point to it all. Maybe that's another statement about life. It would often be true. But to me it leaves a cold distance between me and the narrative. As much as I found Salter's writing to be thrilling, I never much felt like embracing it, if that makes any sense. What I will remember about All That Is is not a feeling that was provoked, not a theme that I will remember and call back to, but, simply, the prose. To me, that makes it an incomplete experience.
There's one last issue that I have with this novel. There's a huge problem with representation of women. For the first half of the book I was willing to shrug it away, arguing to myself that since the writing feels like an artifact from the 1950s, perhaps it was an intentional goal to mimic the intense focus on men: their ideals, feelings, and role in society. But when a man is discovered in flagrante delicto with a female cashier and Salter writes that "The cashier claimed rape but then regained her poise," it is extremely disquieting. To say the least.
Grade: B-
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Hmmm. I'm of two minds on this one. On the one hand: WOW. James Salter is an incredible writer. His descriptive style is flawless: clear, concise, creative, and imparted with gorgeous prose that has a poet's precision. On one character's drunk mother: "Her voice slurred a little but she rode over it as if it were a fleck of tobacco on her tongue, as if she could pause and wipe it away with a finger." Surveying a party, an "older woman with a nose as long as an index finger was eating greedily, and the man with her blew his nose in the linen napkin, a gentleman, then.”
My copy of this book is a sea of highlights: fascinating descriptions, intriguing observations, and, frequently, just a neat turn of phrase that I liked the sound of. I think the last time I left a book so smeared with highlights was the last time I read a book by E.M. Forster. Salter's skill with a pen definitely makes him deserve the company, although I would say that Salter's style has a slightly more mid-to-late-20th century feel to it. There are passages in All That Is that could come straight out of a Salinger novel or a Raymond Carver story, and I can think of no higher praise than that. It makes me ashamed that until this book was released, I had never heard of James Salter.
I suppose that isn't so far-fetched, given that it had been thirty-five years since Salter's last novel. I wasn't even born yet. But in that time he did release two volumes of short stories, one volume of poetry, a collection of travel essays, and a book about food (the last one written with his wife). So the book nerd in me does feel a wee bit chastened. Mostly, though, I feel relieved that I did find him. There's a joy in discovering someone who can write so well that their talent alone thrills you as you read.
The problem is that the thrill of Salter's writing is the only thrill to be found here. For long stretches of time it feels like the narrative is going nowhere. Yes, the writer is skilled enough to keep you going, but there were countless times during the process that I found myself wondering where, exactly, the destination was, and when we might finally get there. It dangerously toes the line of plodding, and in some cases I would argue that it goes over. Even if only by a hair's breadth. Part of me feels bad criticizing this, since it seems to be a goal of Salter's to revel in the quotidian details of Philip Bowman's life. After all, the quotidian is what we spend a great deal of time on in our own lives. Which may just make it the essence of life. Whether or not you want to read about it or escape from it in your reading time is a decision only you can make.
Characters come and go, sometimes all too briefly. Some get a short glance while others step into the spotlight. Again, this is meant to mirror everyday life. In his 1997 memoir Salter notes: “If you can think of life, for a moment, as a large house with a nursery, living and dining rooms, bedrooms, study, and so forth, all unfamiliar and bright, the chapters which follow are, in a way, like looking through the windows of this house. Certain occupants will be glimpsed only briefly. Visitors come and go. At some windows, you may wish to stay longer, but alas. As with any house, all within cannot be seen.” So it is with the narrative of All That Is.
I'd be lying if I told you that I didn't occasionally find it frustrating. Not just because of the sensation of plodding. Salter is a strong enough writer to deserve a little patience. But because it frequently doesn't feel like there's a point to it all. Maybe that's another statement about life. It would often be true. But to me it leaves a cold distance between me and the narrative. As much as I found Salter's writing to be thrilling, I never much felt like embracing it, if that makes any sense. What I will remember about All That Is is not a feeling that was provoked, not a theme that I will remember and call back to, but, simply, the prose. To me, that makes it an incomplete experience.
There's one last issue that I have with this novel. There's a huge problem with representation of women. For the first half of the book I was willing to shrug it away, arguing to myself that since the writing feels like an artifact from the 1950s, perhaps it was an intentional goal to mimic the intense focus on men: their ideals, feelings, and role in society. But when a man is discovered in flagrante delicto with a female cashier and Salter writes that "The cashier claimed rape but then regained her poise," it is extremely disquieting. To say the least.
Grade: B-
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